


Still the Same

by The Librarina (tears_of_nienna)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, Angst, Light Bondage, M/M, Police Procedural, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 74,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2464307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/pseuds/The%20Librarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras caught the infamous art thief Grantaire in his first month as an FBI agent. Four years later, a supposedly reformed Grantaire works out a deal to help the FBI catch an organized crime boss--with Enjolras as his handler. But working together is more frustrating than Enjolras could have believed, and it doesn't help that Grantaire has started an actual <em>book club</em> with Enjolras' husband. White Collar AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out artemisghoul's _fantastic_ photosets! [One](http://joly.co.vu/post/100537173134/enjolras-caught-the-infamous-art-thief-known-as-r) | [Two](http://joly.co.vu/post/100537269848/were-all-illusionists-one-way-or-another-its) | [Three](http://joly.co.vu/post/100537428129/combeferres-lips-go-thin-in-a-way-that-suggests)

_You always won, every time you placed a bet_  
 _You're still damn good, no one's gotten to you yet_  
 _Every time they were sure they had you caught_  
 _You were quicker than they thought_  
 _You'd just turn your back and walk..._

_\--_ Bob Seger, "Still the Same"

 

"Hey, Enjolras?"

"Hm?"

"We just got a report you need to see."

He glances up from the computer screen. "Okay, put it on the desk. I'll get to it as soon as I--"

"No," Eponine says firmly. "You want to see this now. Valjean's orders."

Enjolras tears his attention away from the paperwork on the screen and reaches for the blue folder in Eponine's hands. He flips it open and stares down at the top sheet. "When did this happen?"

"The report came in five minutes ago, after they locked down the premises and did a search. He was still there at bed-check last night, so he disappeared sometime between midnight and now."

"That's _seven hours_. They had no eyes on him for _seven hours_? What exactly does 'super-max' mean if he can just--" He cuts himself off and refocuses. "Okay. Why does Valjean want me?"

"He wants you to coordinate the search."

" _Me_?" He's barely been with the Bureau for four years, and while he'd like to think he's established himself as a capable agent, he's not in a position to be put in charge of a case like this. "Aren't there a thousand agents with more experience?"

"Probably. But _they've_ never caught him before. Valjean's putting fifty agents at your disposal."

Enjolras takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He focuses on strategy, rather than on the fact that he's just been given command of a sizable portion of the FBI agents in New York City. "Right. I want agents at all of his known addresses, I want his picture on every airline agent's screen and every car rental place in the city. I want all his aliases flagged at JFK, LaGuardia, Newark. Have NYPD monitor reported vehicle thefts, with a priority on luxury vehicles--especially classic cars and the less-flashy imports. Anything classy."

"Boss?" Eponine frowns, on the verge of a question.

"He's drawn to a certain aesthetic, and everything's a game to him. Leaving New York in a beat-up Corolla is like cheating. If it doesn't have style, it's not worth taking."

"Got it." Eponine slips away to pass on the orders, and Enjolras skims the report. The most recent picture of Grantaire--taken by the automatic cameras at bed-check last night--shows him with a surprisingly heavy beard.

Enjolras would be everything he owns that, wherever he is, Grantaire's clean-shaven now. He may have even cut his hair.

Quick, quiet footsteps let him know that Eponine's back. He smiles, waiting for the question.

"Where do you want _me_ , boss?"

He stands up. "You're with me," he says. The _of course_ is implied.

"Okay, but I just sent agents to cover all of his hideouts. Where are we going?"

Enjolras picks up his jacket and hands her the folder. "We're going to find him. Get your gear and meet me at the car."

He eyes the people waiting for the elevators and then gives up and shoves open the door to the staircase. It's twelve flights down, but he'll still get to the parking garage faster--and with any luck, it'll loosen some of the nervous tension that took root at the back of his neck the minute he saw the name at the top of the file.

It's been almost four years. Combeferre teases him about it sometimes, but it was the first case he solved as an FBI agent, and that makes it memorable. Plus, it's fairly easy to date, considering it happened the week he and Combeferre had gotten married. Though why Grantaire would make a break for it _now_ , when he only had a couple of months left on his sentence...

Eponine is already standing by the car when he gets down to the garage.

"You know, sometimes I really do suspect you of witchcraft," he says, unlocking the doors.

"It's not witchcraft; it's having the key to the freight elevator."

"Fair enough." They both climb in, and Enjolras pulls out of the parking garage and into traffic. After a mile or so, he catches Eponine watching him from the corner of her eye.

"You know where he is," she says. It isn't a question.

"I have my suspicions."

"So all of those other agents are what--a distraction?"

"They're insurance. He might surprise me." He waits for a light to change and turns west.

Eponine gives him three minutes, tapping her fingers on the armrest. It's two minutes longer than Enjolras expected. "Are you going to fill me in, or what?" she asks.

"What's the most stereotypical mistake a criminal can make?"

"Leaving fingerprints?"

He shakes his head. "Returning to the scene of the crime."

"Okay, but Grantaire doesn't _make_ mistakes."

"Not many of them, no."

Eponine rolls her eyes. "Even if he _is_ returning to the scene of the crime...which crime is it?"

"The only one that matters--the one where I caught him."

"Why the _hell_ would he go back there?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. It's just a thought. But if he's not here, then he's in the wind. It doesn't matter how many agents we put on alert. Seven hours? He could be anywhere."

They drive out to the edge of the city in quiet, through the slushy remnants of dirty post-Christmas snow. Enjolras keeps waiting for his phone to ring, waiting for some kind of news--a lead, a sighting. He doesn't really expect a capture. Grantaire's too good at this, and Enjolras knows he only caught him in the first place because of an incredible combination of mild insight and very, very good luck.

The warehouse looks almost like it did four years ago, just a little more dilapidated and overgrown. Enjolras kills the engine and gets out of the car. He approaches the building at an instinctive angle that keeps him out of the sight-line of the gaping, empty window frames. Eponine stays close by his side, one hand resting on the grip of her gun.

"This place is abandoned," she says. "It probably ought to be condemned."

Enjolras nudges a tangle of ripped-out ivy with the toe of his shoe. It's dead and brown, with no leaves left, but it's sitting on _top_ of the snow, which means it's been there less than a day. He lifts his gun from its holster, holding it low at his side. " _Somebody_ 's been here. Let's see if they're still around."

The building isn't much more than a brick box. Everything inside that could possibly be of use has already been cannibalized for scrap, which makes it easy to clear the first few floors.

It's on the fourth floor, a cavernous space supported by thick concrete pillars, that everything becomes familiar. The printing press had been over there, and the drying racks along the far wall. The bare bricks had been whitewashed and then painted in a bright abstract swirl, either as practice or to pass the time, but the work has long-since been obscured by the tags of local graffiti artists.

At first it _does_ seem like the place is empty. It's cold enough that their breath fogs in the air, and Enjolras sort of wishes he'd worn his gloves. There's no sound, no movement, nothing to indicate that the building is anything less than abandoned.

But then Enjolras catches sight of dark curls spilling out from behind a pillar. He's sitting on the floor, long legs tucked underneath him. Enjolras glances at Eponine and holsters his gun, signaling her to stay back.

He crosses to the edge of the room, keeping well out of arm's reach. He knows Grantaire better than anyone in the world by now, but that doesn't mean he trusts him. He stops when he can see the edge of Grantaire's profile, the angle of his jaw shaved clean of last night's beard.

"What are you doing here, Grantaire?"

Enjolras watches his shoulders beneath the gray sweatshirt he's wearing, waiting for the telltale muscle shift that would indicate he's drawn a weapon, but there's nothing.

"Well. I was drinking, and then I was waiting. Now I'm talking."

Enjolras has heard Grantaire speak three different languages, and he knows that he's capable of a hundred different accents. But he's never heard him sound quite like this before--quiet and rough, a little Brooklyn creeping in at the edges. He sounds exhausted, and Enjolras wonders if this is his natural accent. "Are you carrying?" he asks.

A snort. "You know I don't like guns."

That's not, strictly speaking, an answer. Enjolras rounds the corner, one hand on the butt of his gun.

He's wearing dark jeans and workboots and a gray hooded jacket, utterly nondescript. He could blend into a crowd anywhere in the country right now. Four years haven't made him any less handsome--this is the same Grantaire who could open locked doors in a heartbeat with just a wink and a smile.

But he isn't smiling, and one hand is curled around the neck of an empty wine bottle. He's turning it this way and that, watching the way the pale winter sunlight falls through the green glass to shine on the floor. He looks up at Enjolras, and there's a rueful sort of twist to his lips. "Hey. Long time."

"Almost four years," Enjolras replies.

"Mm-hm."

Enjolras glances back at Eponine, still standing in the doorway with her gun in her hand, and he waves her off. She'll head downstairs and cover the exit while she calls it in, which means they've got about fifteen minutes before the warehouse gets very crowded.

He crouches down next to Grantaire. "Why?"

His gaze flickers up to Enjolras' face, and then away. "I was bored."

"You're going to be bored for four more years now, you know."

"I know," he says bleakly. He rubs his thumb over the label of the wine bottle. "I used to love this stuff. I thought, the first thing I do when I get out, I'm going to buy a bottle. I thought it would taste like freedom."

"Did it?"

"Nah. Maybe you actually have to pay for it, to get that feeling."

"It probably helps if you're not on the lam, too."

"I imagine so."

"Put the bottle down, Grantaire."

He sets the bottle carefully upright. "What happens now?" 

"You know what happens now."

He heaves a sigh. "Yeah, I guess so."

"How'd you do it?"

He laughs, and it's a jagged, bitter sound. "A true magician never reveals his secrets."

"Is that what you are, then? A magician?"

Grantaire shrugs, or maybe he only shivers. "We're all illusionists, one way or another. It's all misdirection, making people look where we want them to, see what we want them to see..." He trails off. An entire bottle of wine, after four dry years, should be enough to have Grantaire slurring his words. But he doesn't seem drunk--just sad.

Flashing red and blue lights mix with the late morning sunlight, and it's Enjolras' turn to sigh. " _Why_?" he asks again, giving in to the edge of his frustration. "You're a lot of things, not least a pain in the ass, but you've never been stupid. Why'd you do this? And don't try to tell me you were bored. That's not even a good lie."

He shakes his head. "I don't know."

Enjolras waits for more, but Grantaire doesn't say anything. It's not exactly surprising. "Are you going to let me take you downstairs? We don't have to make this a spectacle."

"Can we forego the handcuffs?"

"Absolutely not."

Grantaire takes a deep breath. "Okay," he says. "Okay." He stands up and puts his hands behind his back, and the weary acceptance twists at Enjolras' heart, just a little. This isn't the Grantaire he remembers from four years ago. Prison was supposed to teach him a lesson, not _break_ him.

He feels bad about it, but he tightens the cuffs anyway. Grantaire has been known to slip out of handcuffs given remarkably little leeway. "Come on."

They go down the stairs in single-file, Grantaire in front of Enjolras. Eponine is waiting for them at the bottom of the last flight, and there's only a door between them and a circus of law enforcement. It's the last chance they'll have to speak in anything like privacy.

"Hey," Enjolras says. "Do me a favor?"

Grantaire snorts.

"When you get back...I know there's a psychologist on staff at the prison. Maybe it'll help, to talk to someone." He can _feel_ Eponine giving him a look, but he ignores it.

"Sure, why not," Grantaire replies. "It's not like I'm short on time, right?"

 _Whose fault is that_? Enjolras bites the words back from the tip of his tongue.

Grantaire looks over at him. "I hear you're working on the Montparnasse case. How's that going?"

He knows better than to ask how Grantaire knows about the Montparnasse case. "It's classified," he says flatly. "Do you know something about it?"

He shrugs, and the motion makes the chain of his handcuffs clink. "I've heard some things. Come see me sometime and we can talk about it." There's a painful edge of _hope_ in his voice, like nothing would please him more than a visit from Enjolras.

"We'll see," is all Enjolras says. Then they step outside into blinding winter sunlight and a horde of federal agents.

 

He turns Grantaire over to the guards from upstate super-max, feeling a strange mixture of satisfaction and disappointment. Satisfied, because he'd managed to catch Grantaire a second time...and disappointed, because he'd tried to run with two months left on his sentence. It doesn't make any _sense_.

He goes back to the office and tries to sort through all the security data the prison had sent over. The jury may still be out on _why_ , but Enjolras is determined to piece together the _how_. If it could be done once, it can be done again--and next time it's unlikely to be a non-violent prisoner like Grantaire.

Security footage suggests that Grantaire started growing a beard--not the three-day scruff he'd been known to favor, but a full beard--more than six weeks before he'd finally made his escape. On the morning he walked out of prison, he'd shaved and slicked back his hair. It was enough to make him unremarkable and unrecognized, and he'd just walked out during a shift change, wearing a guard's uniform.

How he got the uniform is a question that Enjolras will leave up to the prison itself, but he wouldn't be remotely surprised if someone found himself out of a job at the end of it.

He's stumbling through a report, trying to fashion a coherent narrative that doesn't flat-out say _I acted on a bullshit hunch that happened to be right this time_ , when Valjean appears in front of his desk.

"Sir?"

"You should go home," Valjean says.

Enjolras shakes his head. "There's still paperwork--"

"You apprehended an escaped convict before lunch. You've earned the afternoon off, I think. Go on. Tell Combeferre I said hello."

"I will. Uh...thank you, sir."

He makes incredible time on the commute--the benefits of beating rush-hour traffic for once--and is home by a quarter to four. Even Combeferre won't be home for an hour, at least. Enjolras calls in enough takeout to feed a baseball team and then takes Fitz out for a walk.

When he gets back, there's just enough time to feed Fitz before the food arrives--and shortly after it comes Combeferre.

He grins when he sees Enjolras, and kisses him when he sees the Kung Pao chicken on the kitchen table. "You're home _early_ ," he says. "Special occasion?"

"Sort of."

"Oh?"

"We can talk about it later. I missed lunch."

Combeferre helps dish out the food and tosses Enjolras a pair of chopsticks. Enjolras had been too busy all day to stop and think about food, but in the absence of work he suddenly realizes how ravenous he is. He works his way through most of his plate before he stops and takes a deep, slow breath.

"Grantaire escaped today."

" _Escaped_?" Combeferre sets down his chopsticks. "From upstate _super-max_?"

"Yeah. He won't tell me how he did it--says a good magician never reveals his secrets."

Combeferre nods, relieved. "So you found him, then."

"We had him back in custody by noon."

"We?"

Enjolras smiles. "Eponine was there, too."

"Well, at least you've learned to take back-up," Combeferre replies, with a wry twist of his lip. It's an old, half-serious argument, and Enjolras isn't going to push it right now.

"It wasn't needed. He didn't put up a fight--I think he _wanted_ to get caught."

"Then why leave at all?"

"He said he was bored."

"Do you believe it?"

Enjolras snorts. "I know better than to believe a word that comes out of his mouth." But _I've heard some things_ echoes in his head. The Montparnasse case has been open for years, since long before Enjolras became an agent. Officially speaking, it's the Patron-Minette case, named for the organization rather than the man who runs it. Years ago it had been the Thenardier case, but when the FBI had closed in on Thenardier it had just opened a power vacuum into which Montparnasse fit quite neatly. Just the _thought_ of a break in the case is enough to flood Enjolras' veins with adrenaline. "How was your day?" he asks, forcing his mind off of work. Combeferre grins and starts to talk about a storytime gone entirely awry, and Enjolras doesn't talk or even think about Grantaire for the rest of the evening.

But there's nothing left to distract him once they're in bed, and the lights are off. Combeferre is fast asleep beside him, and Enjolras is awake as he's ever been. Had Grantaire escaped because of whatever he'd heard about Montparnasse? Does he really even know anything about the case, or was that nothing more than a desperate carrot-on-a-stick ploy? And how on earth is Grantaire going to survive another four years in prison?

Combeferre shifts. He lifts his head to peer at the clock and then rolls over to face Enjolras. "So we're back to this?"

Enjolras turns to him. He's not much more than a silhouette, but the streetlight outside gleams on the dark curve of his shoulder. "Hm?"

"This thing you do where you stare up at the ceiling all night worrying about Grantaire."

"I'm not worried about Grantaire," he replies automatically.

"No?"

"No. I'm not worried about him--I'm _angry_. This was a stupid move on his part, and I don't understand why he did it, and I'm angry that he's screwed up his life _again_ , just before he had a chance to start over."

"Yeah," Combeferre agrees. "That doesn't sound like worry at all."

Enjolras rolls his eyes, knowing that it will go unseen. "By all rights, it should have worked. The escape itself was meticulously planned over _six weeks_. And then he gets out into the city and somehow it all falls apart? I found him in the same place I caught him the first time. It doesn't make sense."

"He's been inside for almost four years. Imagine what it must feel like, being out in the city after four years in there--the overstimulation, the agoraphobia. Sure, a cell isn't a pleasant place to be, but at least it's predictable."

"I didn't want that to happen to him."

"Of course you didn't," Combeferre says gently. "But it isn't your fault."

"Isn't it?"

"You're not responsible for his actions, Enjolras, _he_ is. He made the choice to commit a crime, and he made the choice to escape. It might be regrettable, but it is _not_ your fault."

"If you say so." He sighs. "Go back to sleep. I'll be all right."

"No, it's too late, I'm awake now." Combeferre slides a leg over Enjolras' hips and leans up over him. "And if you're not going to sleep, you know...I have a few other ideas."

He _does_ get to sleep.

Eventually.

 

* * *

 

But of course Grantaire isn't far from his mind the next day. The rest of the white-collar crime division can't stop bringing it up, like it was some brilliant Holmesian detective work that led him to Grantaire and not a hunch that happened to pay off.

After lunch, he climbs the half-flight of stairs to Valjean's office.

"Enjolras," he says, pulling off his reading glasses. "Come in, sit down. What can I do for you?"

Enjolras sits in the chair opposite Valjean's desk. "It's about Grantaire."

"I can't say I'm surprised to hear that. He's all anyone can talk about today."

"Before we left the warehouse, he said something to me. About Montparnasse."

Valjean raises an eyebrow. "Do we have any evidence that Grantaire was ever connected to that organization?"

"Officially, no," Enjolras admits. "But he was active in the city at the same time Montparnasse was coming into power, and it's conceivable that they might have crossed paths, maybe even worked together once or twice. He implied that he had information that could help us, and I think it deserves to be investigated."

"I see."

Enjolras steels himself. "And I was hoping that I could be the one to run it down."

"You?"

"Yes, sir. He doesn't have a rapport with anyone else in the Bureau."

"His _rapport_ with you consists of two arrests. How do you know he's not--if you'll pardon me--yanking your chain?"

"Does it matter? All I lose by going to meet him is a few hours of my time. If he doesn't have anything for us, then that's the end of it. But if he can get us a break in the case..."

"He'll want something in return," Valjean warns.

"I thought of that. There's an art supply shop around the corner from my house. A pad of good paper and some chalk pastels might be enough to buy us a little goodwill. And if the intel's good, we can see where it leads from there."

He nods. "Make sure the sketchpad isn't spiral-bound. They won't let you give it to him if it is."

Enjolras can easily imagine the havoc Grantaire could unleash with a few feet of thin wire. "Of course. Thank you, sir."

 

 * * *

 

It takes three days to get approval from Javert in the DC office. He's authorized to offer Grantaire exactly _nothing_ in exchange for his cooperation, but Enjolras is sure he can renegotiate if it turns out that Grantaire really does have information that can help them.

He flies out to Buffalo and rents a car to get him the rest of the way. Eponine had offered to go with him, but the Bureau wasn't willing to pay for two round-trip tickets on what was nothing more than an exploratory mission. Anyway, Grantaire will probably respond better if he's not outnumbered.

Enjolras signs the log-book when he gets in. He has enough status to get a face-to-face meeting, without the clichéd glass wall and telephones. The warden spends a lot of time assuring him that the 'security breach' won't happen again before showing him into the meeting room. It isn't much larger than the cells, but there's a steel picnic table bolted to the floor, and only one guard standing inside the barred door.

He only has to wait a few minutes before another guard ushers Grantaire in. His eyes light up when he sees that Enjolras is his visitor. "You came," he says, sitting down at the table.

"Of course I came," Enjolras says flatly, refusing to banter with him. "You know I wouldn't be able to put your little hint about Montparnasse out of my mind."

He doesn't even have the courtesy to look ashamed. "That was the goal, yeah. It's lonely in here," he admits, "and I liked the idea of having a visitor."

The log-book had been appallingly empty when Enjolras had signed in; he's been trying to convince himself that it was a new log, but apparently that isn't the case. Then again, Grantaire has no family, few known associates, and he's always preferred to work alone.

"If you brought me all the way out here because you were _lonely_ ," Enjolras starts.

"I didn't, I swear. It's just...it's good to see you, honestly."

It's a start. Enjolras sets the paper and pastels down on the table and watches Grantaire's hands curl into covetous fists. "These are for you," he says.

"I haven't even given you anything yet."

Enjolras shrugs. "It's a good-faith kind of thing."

"Oh yeah?" He glances around the room. "So where's the bad cop?"

"No bad cop, no good cop. Just me." Enjolras slides the box of pastels across the table, and Grantaire reverently lifts the lid. He fumbles the box, just a little, because of the way his hands are bound, but he looks up at Enjolras almost shyly. "Do you mind if I...?"

"Go ahead." Enjolras turns to the guard. "Excuse me--can we get the handcuffs removed?"

She frowns, and Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Look, I've caught him twice already. I think I can handle him if he tries to run."

"Didn't anyone tell you it isn't nice to brag?" Grantaire murmurs, but he smiles when the guard unlocks the cuffs. He reaches for the tray of pastels and selects a bright green. He traces an arc across the page and lets out a slow breath, like a weight is lifting off his shoulders.

Enjolras gives him a few seconds to sketch before prompting him. "What have you heard about Montparnasse that the FBI doesn't know?"

Grantaire shifts his shoulders and blends a few colors together with his fingertips. "Nothing specific--obviously I've been out of touch for a while. But I know him from before."

Enjolras leans forward. "What do you know, Grantaire?"

"I know he took over the Patron-Minette organization when Thenardier got his life sentence six years ago. I know he's had a bounty out on the kid--Thenardier's boy--ever since. Rumors differ on whether the kid turned his father in for the reward or whether he's out to get revenge on Monty for taking over. Whatever the case may be, the kid changed his name and dropped out of sight--but Monty seems to have a line on his identity."

Enjolras' hand curls into a fist beneath the table, trying not to betray his surprise. "Does he." First thing when he gets back, he's going to call WITSEC and have them move Gavroche. Again. Eponine will be furious, because even if they didn't grow up together, he _is_ her little brother, and it'll be hard for him to pack up and change colleges right before the semester starts. But if Monty's found out where he is, it could be a matter of life and death.

"And there's a rumor Monty's back in the city now."

Enjolras hasn't heard a whisper of this rumor, even though he's got every data stream the FBI can ethically access flagged for a mention of Montparnasse's name. "Can you prove that?"

"It's a _rumor_ , Enjolras. If I could prove it, it would be a _fact_."

"So where did this rumor come from?"

He shrugs. "How the hell do I know? You hear something from somebody who heard something from somebody. But all of the somebodies are saying that he's in New York, or he's coming soon."

Enjolras nods. "Thank you. That's...good to know." He watches Grantaire draw for another minute. "You haven't asked for anything."

"I wasn't aware that I was in a position to make requests," he says without looking up.

"You're uniquely situated to help us with the Montparnasse case--not to mention your insight into art theft and bond forgery. If you agreed to help us, we might be able to make some kind of arrangement."

"Yeah? Like what?"

Enjolras is off the map now. He's not even authorized to _mention_ this. "There's case law that says a felon can serve out his sentence under limited house arrest as a CI--a criminal informant. You still have some connections in Montparnasse's operation, don't you? If you could help us bring them in..."

His eyes widen a fraction. "You'd let me do that?"

"There's precedent for it," Enjolras says. He doesn't want to get Grantaire's hopes up, but it's hard to want to kill the spark in his eyes. "I'd have to run it by my boss, and his boss, and _his_ boss, and it won't be easy to convince them."

"Of course."

"If I'm going to take this to my boss and make the request, I need two things. I need one piece of concrete evidence that we can verify, and I need you to tell me, honestly, if you think you can get to Montparnasse."

Grantaire takes a breath, considering; it's the first time since he picked up the chalk that his hands have gone still. "I could get to him. But it'll take time--that's a long con. In the short term, he's got an associate who runs fake bags through the back of a butcher shop. His name's Claquesous. It wouldn't take too long to get to him."

Enjolras frowns. "Fake purses? That seems awfully small-time for someone like Montparnasse."

"It's not the purses, it's what's hidden inside the lining."

"What's that?"

"I don't know, exactly--I just know that there's something in the lining that makes the whole thing worthwhile. That's why Monty's running the knock-offs."

"Can you prove that?"

"Kick down the back door of the butcher shop and say hi."

Enjolras suppresses a smile. "You know we can't do that."

"Fine, fine. Um...there's a drop in a locker at Penn Station. Whenever Monty had work for me, he'd send me there, and that's where the information would be."

"What's the combination?"

"Hell if I know. You have to jimmy the lock--it's like an entrance exam. If you need the combination, you're not on the level that Monty wants, right? But I remember the locker number: 2381."

"2381," Enjolras repeats. "That's a start, anyway. We'll take a look."

"Be careful nobody sees you."

"Yes, _thank_ you," he says dryly. "Is there anything else you'd like to talk about?"

Grantaire shifts his shoulders in a shrug. "You're the one who came to see me. What do _you_ want to talk about?"

"The theft and subsequent restoration of a certain Matisse work?" And its attempted anonymous donation to the MOMA, after said restoration. It's been annoying him for four years now--he's  _certain_ it was Grantaire, but he'll never hear him say it.

"I'm afraid I don't know anything about that," Grantaire says lightly, smudging the chalk with his thumb.

"Of course you don't." Enjolras rises from the table.

"Here." Grantaire carefully pulls the top sheet of paper from the sketchpad and slides it across the table to Enjolras.

On the page is the green glass bottle from the warehouse, with the light shining through it. It's beautiful, and it's taken Grantaire less than fifteen minutes to draw it. Enjolras shakes his head. "You have incredible talent," he says. "Why would you..."

"Use my powers for evil?" He shrugs. "Art doesn't really pay that well anymore. No wealthy patrons who will support your bad habits in exchange for a handful of paintings and a sculpture or two. I'd have no problem being a kept man, if it keeps me in paint and beer--but the market's kind of shrunk over the last few centuries."

When Enjolras doesn't offer to banter with him, Grantaire drops the bravado for a shy smile. "I did go to the psychologist. I don't know if it helped or anything, but I said I would, and I did. You can check the log-book if you want."

"I trust you."

"No, you don't."

"I believe you went," Enjolras clarifies, "and I'm glad. Are you going to keep going?"

"Why not? It's something to do, at least. Anyway, thanks for letting me borrow these. It was nice to have something to do with my hands." He pushes the box of pastels towards Enjolras.

Enjolras pushes them back. "No, these are yours."

"You're kidding."

"No."

For one terrible second, Enjolras really thinks Grantaire might cry. Instead, he just nods. "Thanks. For coming, and for...all this."

"I'll get in touch with you if--" Enjolras reconsiders. "Either way, I'll come back."

It's almost painful, the way Grantaire brightens at the promise.

Enjolras leaves before the guard puts the handcuffs back on him. He doesn't want to watch the resignation fall across Grantaire's face again. He also doesn't want to think about why it bothers him so much.

The flight to LaGuardia gets him into the city just before six, but he drives back to the Bureau anyway. He knows that Valjean won't leave the office until he's heard what Enjolras has to say. He's curious, and Enjolras can't blame him for that--a break in the Patron-Minette case would end a five-year drought.

Valjean's sitting in his office, and Enjolras climbs the short flight of stairs to knock on the glass-fronted door.

"Come in," he says immediately, barely glancing up. "Sit down, I'm almost done with this..." He peers over his glasses at the screen, then presses Enter and looks up. "So. How was it?"

"Good. He thinks he can get us Montparnasse, and he's certain he can get Claquesous, one of Montparnasse's lieutenants--"

"I'm familiar with the name. I'm less familiar with how, exactly, he plans to help us get Claquesous."

"The term 'criminal informant' may have come up in conversation," Enjolras mutters, waiting for the inevitable reprimand.

Valjean chuckles. "Assistant Director Javert will be so pleased."

"I didn't promise him anything."

"It wouldn't matter if you had," Valjean assures him.

"I think he could be an...asset to us," Enjolras says carefully.

Valjean makes a noncommittal sound. "Did he happen to mention anything else? Or is all of his assistance contingent on his work-release hopes?"

"He told me about a locker that Montparnasse has used for communication in the past. It's in Penn Station, number 2381. He said he doesn't know the combination--you have to be able to bypass the lock if you want whatever's inside. Like a test."

"I see."

"He also said Montparnasse might be close to finding Gavroche Thenardier..."

Valjean frowns. "I'll call WITSEC and have them relocate him tonight."

Gav's not going to like that; neither is Eponine. But if Montparnasse knows where he is, then Gav's not safe, not even for another night. "Thank you, sir."

"As for the rest of it, the locker and all of that..."

He doesn't think it's enough. Enjolras can _tell_ that Valjean doesn't think it's enough, doesn't think Grantaire can be valuable to them. If he can't convince Valjean, then he doesn't have a _prayer_ of getting Valjean to take the case to the assistant director. Before he can stop himself, he's rushing to reinforce his argument. "I told him that I needed something concrete, and this is what he gave me. We _have_ to look into this."

Valjean gives him a mild look. "Of course we're going to look into it."

"Oh." The steam goes out of what could have been a fairly impressive rant. "Thank you, sir."

He nods. "Now, I don't know about you, but I'm ready to call it a night. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."     

 

 

When Enjolras walks into the house, Combeferre is half-watching an old episode of _Grey's Anatomy_ and half-reading a stack of children's books for next week's storytimes. He mutes the TV and stands up to kiss him while Enjolras is still tangled in his coat. "Hi," Enjolras says.

"So how was he?" Not _How were your flights_ or _How did it go_ but _How was he_ , because Combeferre can read him like a book.

"Okay, I think." He steps back to hang his coat by the door, and Fitz butts her head against his knee for attention. He reaches down to scratch her behind her slightly mismatched ears. "Better than he was last week when I brought him in, anyway."

"I'm glad," Combeferre says, and that's the thing. He _is_ glad, even though he's never met Grantaire and has no particular reason to care about his well-being. It would have been easy to understand if Combeferre resented him, considering how much of Enjolras' time he'd eaten up over the months before they'd gotten married.

Enjolras leans forward to kiss him again, and Combeferre smiles against his lips.

"What was that for?"

"No reason," he says. He pushes Combeferre back towards the couch. "Go sit down and pretend to do work."

Combeferre makes a face at him, but he sits back down, and Enjolras knows that he'll wind up so engrossed in the reading that he'll completely lose track of the episode, and Enjolras will have to fill in the gaps.

He bites down on a smile as he goes upstairs to change. It's a pretty good life.

 

* * *

 

Valjean does not inform Enjolras when he decides to look into Grantaire's tip. A week after Enjolras' trip to super-max, Valjean calls him up to his office.

"There was a cell phone inside the locker," he says without preamble. "We weren't able to make sense of the previous messages--obviously they're using some sort of code--but we've cloned the data and sent it down to cryptography, just in case."

Enjolras tries to tamp down his excitement. "Was there anything else?" Valjean's boss won't be satisfied with a burner phone in a jimmied subway locker.

"Fingerprints inside the locker are a match to Brujon, a known associate of Montparnasse. Just started an eight-to-ten for robbery and assault. It's enough to get us a warrant to tap the phone and see if anything interesting turns up."

It's not as good as finding Montparnasse's prints at the scene, but it's a start. "So Grantaire's intel was good," Enjolras ventures. "I think we might be able to use him in the field."

Valjean gives him a serious look. "You're a little close to this case, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir, but I'm also your best bet at keeping him from making an escape attempt. Or making a _successful_ attempt, at least."

"You realize that's not exactly a glowing recommendation to send to DC. Saying _sure he's a flight risk, but we can probably catch him_ is not going to impress anyone."

Enjolras sighs. "I know, sir."

"But I think you're right--I think he could be helpful to us. He might even be the key to the Montparnasse case, so I'll send the recommendation in. But you know Javert's opinion of me. I doubt he's going to go for it, and even if he does, he'll need to convince _his_ boss that it's in our best interests. Don't hold your breath, okay?"

"No, sir. I won't."

When he gets back to his desk, Eponine is waiting for him. She looks angry.

"They moved Gav last week."

Enjolras winces. "I know."

"I just found out this morning. Rumor has it he was moved on nothing more than the word of your pet convict. _Tell_ me that's not true."

Enjolras maintains a diplomatic silence.

"Are you kidding me? He had a _four-point-oh_ at that school. Half of his credits won't even _transfer_. This is going to set his education back a whole semester, not to mention any semblance of a social life he might have had--"

"Grantaire thought Montparnasse had a line on him," Enjolras says quietly. "I know it sucks, and the next time you send him an email from that address that I definitely don't know about, you can tell him I'm sorry. But Valjean was the one who made the call, not me."

She purses her lips. "I just want him to have a normal fucking life," she says.

"None of us has a normal life."

"Yeah, but he _deserves_ one."

"He does. Look, if we can wrap up Patron-Minette, he'll be safe. He can leave the program."

"Sure. _If_." She goes back to her desk, not satisfied, but somewhat less angry at him. It's really all he can hope for, at this point.

Enjolras still doesn't know precisely what the deal is with Eponine and her brother. He knows that Eponine had gone with her mother after their parents' divorce, and that Gavroche had stayed with their father. "Mom didn't want him," Eponine had said once, in a voice of surpassing bitterness. When Thenardier's syndicate started to crumble, Gav was one of the first to testify. He hadn't seemed conflicted about it, either. If he'd known then that the next six years were going to include five different identities and schools and cover stories, Enjolras isn't sure he'd have ever taken the stand.

They _have_ to get to Montparnasse. For Gavroche, and for everyone else whose lives have been ruined by Patron-Minette. One way or another, they have to get to him.


	2. January

It's a bright, cold winter morning, and there would be absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, except that Valjean is on the phone. He's spent all morning on the phone--he hasn't even left his office for a cup of coffee.

Everyone knows it's Javert on the other end of the line. They'd know it even if they couldn't see Valjean's martyred expression through the glass wall of his office. It's a kind of nervous tension that makes the entire floor twitchy. Enjolras had once suggested that Valjean and Javert were oil and water--Eponine had told him to look up a video of Coke and Mentos. The reaction was much more fitting.

Very little work gets done in the outer offices through the morning. Finally Valjean hangs up the phone, and everyone looks down at their paperwork when he descends from his office for lunch.

Enjolras is still trying to work out the wording of a report when Valjean approaches his desk. He gives Enjolras an unreadable look and drops a manila folder on the desk top. "If he gets loose, he's your responsibility. Steals anything, your responsibility. If he so much as _jaywalks_ \--"

"My responsibility," Enjolras finishes, trying to tamp down the soaring triumph he feels. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." When Valjean goes back to his office, Enjolras pulls the folder across the desk and flips it open. The terms of Grantaire's release are miles long, full of ironclad rules and dense legalese. Enjolras spends the next hour sorting through the papers, until he's comfortable putting the regulations into something like layman's terms.

Then he calls the prison.

 

* * *

  

Enjolras is waiting outside when they release Grantaire into his custody Tuesday morning, three weeks to the day after his escape. He's wearing the same suit he'd been wearing the first time Enjolras caught him--navy blue and stylish in an old-fashioned sort of way. It doesn't sit quite right on him anymore, and Enjolras frowns, wondering if he's lost weight.

Grantaire steps beyond the fence with its double row of concertina wire and looks up at the sky warily, like he's afraid someone's going to swoop in and snatch the opportunity away from him.

"Good morning," Enjolras says. He hands Grantaire a cup of coffee, and Grantaire curls his hands--free of handcuffs now--around the paper cup to take a reverent sip.

"Oh my god," he mutters. "I should have gotten a coffee last time, not a bottle of wine. God, this is _so good_."

"It's from the Dunkin' Donuts at the airport," Enjolras says, a little skeptically.

"It's like heaven," Grantaire insists. "I will never take coffee for granted again."

"Do you want to get in the car, or should I let the two of you have a moment together?"

Grantaire takes a noisy slurp of coffee and sits down in the passenger seat. He closes the door, considers, and then opens the door again.

"What are you _doing_?" Enjolras asks, settling into the driver's seat.

"I'm not used to having handles on the inside," he says.

"Put your seatbelt on." Enjolras turns the key in the ignition, but he hesitates before putting the car into gear. "You know the deal, right?"

"Yeah, but you're going to repeat it anyway. Go ahead."

"The Bureau is giving us a week. If--and _only if_ \--we can arrest Claquesous in that amount of time, the Bureau will consider extending the arrangement."

"Extending it how?"

"To the rest of your sentence, potentially. The Bureau's arranged a place for you to stay. I'll pick you up every morning at six-thirty and drop you off on my way home. How's the anklet?"

Grantaire tugs up the leg of his trousers to reveal the strap around his ankle and the small flat rectangle of the transmitter. "I feel like I've been radio-tagged and released into the wild."

"Essentially, you have been. The anklet will monitor your whereabouts, as a condition of your release. You'll have a two-mile radius when you're not in the company of an agent, centered on where you'll be living. And because I know you're already thinking of ways to circumvent it, the only way to get the anklet off without a key is to cut it, which triggers an alarm that goes straight to the US Marshals' office. So I would advise you not to try that."

"Sounds good to me." Grantaire leans back in the passenger seat and puts his feet up on the dashboard.

Enjolras stares at him. "Seriously? Keep in mind that I can put you back in prison whenever I like."

"You were a lot nicer when you were giving me chalk and asking me stupid questions." Grantaire puts his feet down as Enjolras pulls out of the parking lot. Then, in defiance of the mid-January weather, he rolls the window halfway down and closes his eyes, letting the wind tangle his hair.

Once they get to the airport, Enjolras uses his badge to fast-track them through airport security, and they end up waiting in the lounge for half an hour before the plane is ready to board.

An attendant comes around to see if they need anything. Enjolras shakes his head with a quiet 'no thank you,' but Grantaire requests a bottle of water.

When she brings the water, she smiles. "Business trip?" she asks.

"Sort of," Enjolras mutters, trying to get his phone to connect to the airport's wi-fi.

Grantaire grins back at her. "Nah. FBI prisoner transport. Sort of a work-release thing."

The attendant's smile drops. She looks from Grantaire to Enjolras, and her smile returns, warm and sympathetic. "I think it's wonderful that your agency is helping to rehabilitate criminals," she says to Grantaire.

Enjolras tries not to grind his teeth. "Tell the nice lady thank you, Grantaire," he says tightly.

Grantaire nods his thanks, and the attendant moves on.

"Hearts and Hands," Grantaire says, still smirking a little.

"They let you read O. Henry in prison?"

He shrugs. "There's no harm in it. The safe-cracking techniques are a hundred years out of date. The thing is, people only see what they expect. Once you know that, it's easy to make them see what you want them to. You wouldn't expect a prisoner to admit to being one, so by speaking up first I convinced her that I was the cop, and you were the robber."

"Don't do that again. Don't undermine me."

"Undermine you?"

"If there was an emergency right now, would she listen to me? No, because she thinks I'm your damned _prisoner_."

Grantaire holds up his hands. "All right, I'm sorry. Do you want me to go up and tell her the truth?"

"No." Enjolras looks up at the departures board and gives up on the wi-fi. "Come on, we're boarding."

Grantaire is less than impressed with their accommodations on the flight. "Coach, huh?" he asks mournfully.

"Yes. When you're not living off of ill-gotten gains, you have to make the occasional budgetary sacrifice."

"Can I have the window?"

Enjolras doesn't like being unable to see the ground; it's nothing more than an illusion of control, but he's reluctant to give it up. "Sure," he says anyway. It's a short flight, not even an hour. He can let Grantaire have this much, anyway.

Grantaire grips the armrest a little tightly on take-off, but that's the only sign of nervousness he shows. Enjolras discovers that he gets a little dizzy when the plane banks and he can't see the ground to orient himself, and he tries not to blame the situation on Grantaire. He'd _asked_ for the window, and Enjolras had given it to him. He has no one to blame but himself.

He's relieved when the attendants inform the cabin that they're descending to land.

"Oh," Grantaire murmurs. It's the first time he's spoken since take-off. "There it is."

Enjolras glances out the window and sees the city skyline framed in their tiny window. It's not even a very good view; the clouds are low and heavy with the promise of more snow, and everything looks gloomy in the shadows.

But Grantaire's eyes are suspiciously bright, so Enjolras concentrates on making sure their tray tables are secured for landing.

Because Grantaire isn't a prisoner in the strictest sense of the word, they don't get to deplane first. Instead, Enjolras waits until _last_ , so that Grantaire can't lose him in the shuffling crowd. Not that he thinks he'd try, really, but LaGuardia is much more hectic than Buffalo, and if Grantaire _is_ going to give him the slip, this would be the perfect time for it.

But Grantaire keeps pace with him all through the airport and out into the short-term parking lot. Neither of them has any luggage to speak of--Enjolras hadn't needed to bring any for the short trip, and Grantaire... Enjolras supposes he has personal effects _somewhere_ , but they weren't at the prison.

It's early evening now, and most of the traffic is headed out of the city; it makes their trip back much smoother, and it's barely seven when they pull up in front of the run-down hotel that the Bureau has booked for Grantaire. It looks seedier than Enjolras expected, but the price is all that the United States government is willing to pay.

Grantaire looks up at the battered bricks with a grim smile. " _Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels_."

" _\--and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells_ ," Enjolras continues.

Grantaire gives him a surprised, pleased look, and Enjolras rolls his eyes.

"I married a librarian, remember?"

"I remember. The reception was great."

Enjolras freezes in the act of opening the car door, and he turns to Grantaire. "What did you just say?"

Grantaire studies the brick wall outside his window. "Well, I was in town anyway--not the best idea, it turns out, because you caught me three days later--and I couldn't resist stopping by."

"You _crashed_ our _wedding reception_?"

"A little. Take a look at the guest-book sometime."

Enjolras doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or send Grantaire back to prison, so he settles for pointedly turning off the hybrid and gesturing at the building. "Look, that's the budget they're giving us. If you can find a better place for the same price, go for it. As long as it's within two miles. You step outside of that, the anklet sounds an alarm, and--guess what?"

"I'm back in prison."

"Exactly."

He takes a deep breath. "Well, twelve square miles is a whole lot better than an eight-by-eight cell."

"That's a good attitude. Pretty good math, too."

"Was that a compliment, Enjolras?"

"No. Here, this is for emergencies." He hands Grantaire a cheap pay-as-you-go flip phone. "My number's already in it, along with the main public line for the Bureau. You get like fifty text messages a month, so don't waste them."

"That's hardly enough for a good round of sexting," Grantaire complains.

Enjolras ignores him. "I'll see you first thing tomorrow--six-thirty."

Grantaire tosses him a casual salute and climbs out of the car. Enjolras watches him vanish into the hotel, and he pulls out his phone.

"Eponine? Grantaire's on his own. Call the Marshals and have them turn the anklet on, okay?"

 

* * *

 

Combeferre looks faintly crestfallen when he sees that Enjolras is alone. "You didn't bring him with you?"

"No," Enjolras replies, bewildered. "Why would I...?"

"I was hoping I could meet him."

"'Ferre, he's a criminal informant, and he's basically under house arrest. He's not making social calls."

He frowns. "Everybody needs to have friends."

"His friends are all criminals."

"Which is why he needs new ones. _I'm_ not a criminal."

"No, but you're married to his handler, and that's a weird gray area. I need to get more of a read on the situation, first--figure out how much he can be trusted."

"All right, if you insist. I saved you some dinner--it's in the fridge if you want it."

Enjolras presses a kiss to his cheek as he passes the sofa on the way to the kitchen.

For once, Combeferre goes to bed before Enjolras does. He leaves him downstairs around eleven, with a brief kiss and a request that he turn down the thermostat when he comes up to bed.

He sort of forgets to come to bed. It starts with catching up on all the work he missed during the day, since he'd spent nine hours fetching Grantaire. Then he remembers what Grantaire had said this evening. _The reception was great_.

Enjolras sets the laptop aside and goes down to pull a box out of the basement.

After that, he loses track of time. He sets the box down on the dining room table and he doesn't look up until he hears the bottom stair creak. Combeferre leans in the living-room doorway, wearing a thick blue robe and an absurdly adorable expression of sleepy confusion.

"What are you doing up?" he asks.

Enjolras winces. "Sorry, I meant to come to bed, I just..."

Combeferre squints down at the book--he's left his glasses upstairs. "You're sitting up at two in the morning, reading our guest-book? When did you get so romantic?"

"When Grantaire told me he'd stopped by the reception on his way to the hideout where I found him."

"You're _kidding_."

"That's what he said. He also implied that he'd signed the guest-book, so..." He turns another page.

Combeferre pulls out the chair next to Enjolras and sits down. "Did he say what he wrote?"

"I didn't ask."

"Well, then. Let's find out."

They leaf through the pages together, and at some point Combeferre catches Enjolras' free hand in his own. It hadn't been a large ceremony, just friends and a handful of family, but everyone had taken a page and written something, from a few sentences to a full-blown villanelle that managed to be both sweet and suggestive, as only Jehan could be.

He turns the page and is faced with the blank, unfilled sheets at the end of the book. He lifts the empty pages and flips through them, wondering if there's something hidden in a back page...

"Hey, wait a second," Combeferre says.

"Hm?"

He reaches over to tap something on the page. "What's this at the bottom?"

Enjolras leans closer. At the bottom corner, hidden in the knotwork of the page's border, are two tiny stick figures, one pink and one brown. They seem to be holding hands. Enjolras lifts the next page, and there they are again, in a slightly different position.

He looks over at Combeferre and closes the book completely. Then he picks up the pages from one corner and begins flipping through them. The two stick figures approach each other from opposite ends of the page, climbing through the knotwork. When they reach each other, they take hands and kiss.

Enjolras lets the last page fall.

Combeferre is the one who breaks the silence. "You think he was the one who...?"

"I've been through the whole book, and I haven't found anything else that it could be. There's nothing unsigned, nothing that isn't obviously from one of our friends."

"It's sweet."

Enjolras shakes his head. "He was sitting at the back of our reception, _drawing stick figures_ , while half the Bureau was out looking for him."

"I didn't say it was _smart_ ," Combeferre replies, "just sweet."

He's right, but Enjolras isn't wholly comfortable admitting to it. Fugitives should not be _sweet_ to the FBI agents chasing them--it's just not how things are supposed to go.

"Anyway, your curiosity's sated, so will you come to bed now? Six o'clock is going to come a lot sooner than you'd like."

 

 

Combeferre's right. Dragging himself out of bed after slightly less than four hours' sleep is a miserable experience, exacerbated by the fact that Combeferre gets to sleep until eight. He still offers Enjolras a sleepy kiss just before Enjolras goes downstairs.

He's fighting with the coffee maker when his phone buzzes.

 _New address_ , it says, followed by directions. There's an actual smiley face at the end of the text.

Enjolras has a thousand questions. The address must be within Grantaire's radius, or the anklet would have set off an alarm. But how he would have managed to find somewhere to live in the ten-and-a-half hours since Enjolras had dropped him off is beyond suspicious.

He gives up on the coffee and plugs the new address into his GPS before he leaves. It puts him in front of an enormous early-twentieth-century mansion.

When he pulls up, he thinks there must have been some kind of mistake. But Grantaire is sitting out on the front steps, cradling a delicate cup of espresso. He's wearing his suit, with a silver tie pin and cufflinks that look like they might have belonged to Frank Sinatra.

"What the hell is this?" Enjolras demands, getting out of the car.

"You said if I found a better place for the same price, I should take it."

"And you found this _how_?"

"Well, I went to the thrift store down the street from that hotel, since the Bureau hasn't actually returned any of my things yet, and I ran into Sister Simplice--who is not a nun, by the way, that's just her name. She was donating her late husband's clothes, and we got to talking..."

"Tell me you did not take advantage of a grieving widow."

" _Enjolras_. Of course I didn't. But during the course of the conversation, it came out that she has a spare room. Well, more like a suite--open plan, very chic. There's a kitchen and everything, and a balcony--you should come up and see the view, it's amazing."

Enjolras takes in the description, waiting for the bottom line. "There is no way that you can afford to live here."

"Can so. Sister said she'd let me have the room for the same price as the hotel."

Enjolras glances up at the top floor of the building, where he can see the edge of the balcony's stone railing. "Any apartment on this street would be worth _ten times_ the price of the hotel room."

"Yeah, well, I promised to help out around the house a little. Feed the dog, keep an eye on her granddaughter..."

"What, you're a babysitter now? Someone is going to trust you with a _child_?"

Grantaire grins. "She's twenty-one, and she's studying art history."

"That's even _worse_." He pinches the bridge of his nose and desperately wishes he'd had time to brew a cup of coffee before he left.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Grantaire says, and Enjolras steels himself.

He holds out a thermos. "The housekeeper makes the _best_ coffee, so I got you some, too. No sugar and too much cream, right?"

He doesn't want to know how Grantaire figured that out, any more than he wants to know how Grantaire convinced this woman to let him live with her. Enjolras feels like he's lost control of this entire operation, and it hasn't even been a day.

Grantaire twists open the lid of the thermos and holds it out. Enjolras _knows_ he should be suspicious of convicts bearing coffee, but the aroma rising from the thermos is enough to erase his caution. He takes a sip.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he mutters. It's the best coffee he's ever tasted.

"I know, right?"

" _Grantaire_."

"Oh." His smile turns wry. "You're mad."

"I'm not...mad," Enjolras hedges.

"Yes, you are. Look, I can ask where she gets the coffee, if it's that important--"

"It's not about the coffee, Grantaire."

"I think it's _kind of_ about the coffee," he counters.

"You were in raptures about Dunkin' Donuts coffee yesterday. You were _happy_ with Dunkin' Donuts coffee. Are you ever going to be happy about Dunkin' Donuts again?"

"It's doubtful," Grantaire admits. "Are you afraid I'll get airs above my station?"

"I'm afraid you're going to get used to living well outside your means--and supplementing those means in the same ways you used to."

"Ah."

Enjolras pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts Eponine to tell her they'll be late. "I need to talk to your landlady."

Sister Simplice looks like Billie Holiday might have looked, if she'd reached retirement age. She's sitting in a breakfast nook with the _Wall Street Journal_ spread out in front of her, and there's a gray pug mix at her feet, which is so unbelievably ugly that it bends full circle and becomes cute again.

"Ms. Simplice? I'm Enjolras, I'm the agent in charge of Grantaire's case--"

"Call me Sister, please," she says. She gives him a narrow look. "Well, he wasn't overselling you after all, was he? Please, sit down."

Enjolras does. "Are you aware of Grantaire's situation?"

"I'm aware that your agency was putting him up in a flea-ridden old hotel, if that's what you mean."

"I'm afraid I didn't make the arrangements, ma'am. But that isn't what I meant."

"Am I aware that he's a felon? Yes. But a non-violent one."

"He's an extremely talented forger and art thief." Just looking around the dining room, he can see half a dozen pieces worth fencing.

"Well, frankly, if a few of the odds and ends around this place were to go missing, I'd probably thank him. Things do get a bit cluttered after fifty years or so."

Enjolras feels a headache building behind his eyes.

"Anyway, he's not the first felon to take up residence under this roof. Oh, he'd have gotten along just fine with my husband."

Enjolras blinks. "Ma'am?"

Sister gives him a bright, sharp grin. "Ancient history, I'm afraid. And I don't have the time to be telling stories this morning. Now. Are you going to let this situation stand, or are you going to make the poor boy go back to that awful hotel?"

"That _poor boy_ did four years in a super-maximum-security prison upstate--and then escaped."

"Well, mind you keep a closer eye on him this time."

Enjolras knows a dismissal when he hears one. He stands up, and the pug mix eyes him warily. "Thank you for seeing me." He slides a card across the table. "Please call me if you ever need anything--day or night."

"I will."

All things considered, Enjolras isn't sorry that Grantaire's found some place better than the hotel. He turns back at the doorway. "Thank you," he says.

Sister just smiles.

Grantaire is still waiting on the front steps when Enjolras steps outside. "Did you go up and see it?" he asks.

"No," Enjolras replies. "Get in the car."

Grantaire climbs in without complaint. He waits almost a full minute before venturing to say anything. "Am I allowed to stay?"

Enjolras wants to say no, because he doesn't like Grantaire getting the idea that he can manipulate the terms of his release, but it's a hundred times better than the hotel where Enjolras had dropped him off the previous night.

It's also nicer than his own house, which isn't something that he should hold against Grantaire, but it does sting a bit.

The office is quiet when they come in. Enjolras is just as glad to put off the inevitable storm of attention that Grantaire's presence will cause. Even Valjean isn't in yet.

But Eponine is. She catches sight of Grantaire as she crosses the office, and there's a barely perceptible stutter in her step when she recognizes him. She stops in front of Enjolras' desk. "So this is Grantaire," she says skeptically.

"Hi," Grantaire says brightly, holding out a hand; Eponine ignores it.

"Enjolras thinks you can bring in Montparnasse. I'm not convinced...but I want him caught, and the sooner the better." She lays a file down on Enjolras' desk. "Don't fuck it up." She turns on her heel and walks away.

"I like your welcome committee," Grantaire says.

"She has someone in WITSEC because of Patron-Minette. If we take down Montparnasse, we can dismantle the entire organization, and there won't be any need for protection anymore."

"Fair enough." Grantaire sits down in Enjolras' chair and leans back. "So what's on the agenda for today?"

Enjolras lifts the cover of the file that Eponine left him and barely suppresses a sigh. "Paperwork, apparently."

"How exciting."

"Is it more or less boring than being in prison?"

Grantaire smirks. "Fine, I take it back."

"I suppose I could give you a tour," Enjolras says doubtfully, eyeing the stack of folders on his desk. There's nothing really pressing, after all...

"Yeah, I've been meaning to ask about supplies. This is all I've got, you know," he says, indicating his suit. "This, and like two pairs of jeans."

"That's not enough?"

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "Look, you let me out of prison to do a job, and if you want me to do it, I'm going to need certain things. I can't get close to the people who work with Claquesous in a suit that doesn't fit. There's a level of appearance I need to maintain."

"We don't have the budget to supply you with the suits you used to favor. Can't you get it tailored?"

"Maybe, but nobody's going to trust a con man who owns a _single suit_."

Enjolras pushes the folders to the edge of his desk. "I guess I could take you down to the evidence lock-up and see if there's anything we can use."

Grantaire makes a face, but he gets up out of Enjolras' chair, which is an improvement. They take the elevator down to the sub-basements, where an entire floor is devoted to storing confiscated materials relating to old cases.

Enjolras flips the light switch, and buzzing fluorescents flicker to life, illuminating the racks and shelves that fill the space.

Grantaire blinks. "All right, I take back at least half of the unkind things I was thinking on the elevator." He pulls a suit jacket off a rack and checks the label inside. "There's some good stuff down here. Not great, maybe, but good."

The next twenty minutes are filled with Grantaire sifting through the racks of suits and shirts and ties, pulling things out and examining labels and hems. He glances up at Enjolras.

"Hey, can you find me a--"

Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

"Never mind, I'll find it myself," Grantaire says. He flips through dozens of suits hanging on the rack, until Enjolras thinks his brain is going to melt from the relentless scraping slide of metal against metal.

" _Here_ we go." Grantaire pulls a jacket off the rack and inspects it. Then he shrugs out of his own jacket to try it on.

Enjolras watches the muscles of Grantaire's shoulders shift and flex as he pulls on the new jacket. No wonder the old suit hadn't quite fit him anymore--he'd put on a fair amount of muscle in the time since Enjolras had first caught him.

"Is there a mirror down here?"

There are several; the closest one is a massive gilt-framed monstrosity propped up against a nearby wall. Grantaire frowns at his reflection, plucking at the cuffs. "This will work. It needs tailoring, though."

"We don't have time for--"

Grantaire turns on him. "You don't _get it_ , do you? Appearances are _everything_ here. There are two kinds of people who notice every detail about a person's appearance: rich people, and con artists. If so much as a thread is out of place, they know it. Let alone if your tie is always too loose and the knot's off-center because you can't stop tugging on it, and your trousers are hemmed about half an inch too short because whatever tailor you took them to didn't know the fucking difference between a half-break and a flood and you don't even know what I'm _talking_ about right now, do you?"

Enjolras adjusts his tie self-consciously. "I hate ties," he says. "I wouldn't wear them if I didn't have to."

"If I had to wear your ties, I'd feel the same way."

The worst part is that he can see the logic of Grantaire's argument. If they want Patron-Minette to think that Grantaire's up to his old tricks, he has to _look_ like he's up to his old tricks. "Fine. I'll make an appointment with a tailor."

" _Thank_ you."

"And I'll need the evidence numbers of everything we're using--I have to sign for it all."

In the end, Grantaire has four jackets, three pairs of trousers, two pairs of shoes, three dress shirts, and six ties. Enjolras signs off on the paperwork for everything, and they head back towards the elevator.

Grantaire pauses over a shelf of Rolexes. "You know, I could really use a--"

"Keep walking."

 

 

 

Enjolras manages to find a tailor who's willing to take Grantaire's measurements today, so they leave the office twenty minutes early in order to make the appointment. They leave all the suits there, including the jacket that Grantaire had worn to work, in the hopes that it can be altered to fit a little better.

Grantaire shivers when they step out of the shop. It's three blocks to their car, and he makes the walk with his hands tucked deep in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the wind.

Enjolras is almost on the point of lending Grantaire his own coat, despite the fact that they're built in completely different ways and it wouldn't even come close to fitting right. "Remind me to requisition you a coat," he says sharply, managing to imply that it's somehow Grantaire's fault that he hasn't. He needs to work on his tone.

"No arguments here," Grantaire replies.

Enjolras puts the heater on high when they get to the car. Grantaire relaxes, and the warmth seems to lull him into something like peace--at any rate, he's quiet for five consecutive minutes, which is a record in Enjolras' experience.

But of course it can't last. "So, any plans for the weekend?" Grantaire asks.

Enjolras shakes his head. "It's only Wednesday. We'll probably work on the kitchen a little more--it's a never-ending thing. I swear, we were _just_ going to put up a backsplash, but we kept finding things to change and now it's turned into a whole remodel."

"Huh."

"What?"

"Oh--nothing. I mean, however you want to celebrate your anniversary is cool with me."

Enjolras slams on the brakes just in time to avoid running a red light. "Fuck," he mutters. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."

"Oh," Grantaire says with exaggerated kindness. "Did you forget? I can't say I blame you. This week has historically been a busy one for you, with the getting married on a Saturday and arresting me the following Tuesday--"

"Shut up and help me figure out what to do," Enjolras snaps.

"I'm not sure, but I _think_ those two orders cancel each other out, so I'm really going to need you to pick one."

"Okay, I've changed my mind. Just shut up and let me think."

But of course he doesn't. "You've got like four days, that's plenty of time. What's he getting you? Has he dropped any hints?"

"If he'd dropped a hint, I wouldn't have been blindsided by this," Enjolras mutters.

"He hasn't said anything at all? I mean, it's as much his anniversary as yours."

"Of course he hasn't said anything. Combeferre's not--he's not the kind of person to hold it against you, which is why it's so important that I remember these things in the first place."

"If it's not a big deal to him, then why make a fuss about it?"

"Because I _love_ him, damn it, and I don't like the feeling that I'm taking advantage of the fact that he's so easy-going."

Grantaire spends the next block staring at him.

" _What_?"

"I didn't know you were capable of being sweet, that's all."

Enjolras forces himself to unclench his jaw. "I feel like you don't properly appreciate the fact that I could send you back to prison at any time."

Grantaire gives him a patronizing smile. "I promise, I'm quaking internally. Now. What does Combeferre like?"

"Mind your own business."

"Touchy--I didn't mean in _bed_. I mean his hobbies, his interests, his favorite music. What's his comfort food? What book can he quote from memory? That kind of thing."

Enjolras shakes his head. "I don't know! I mean, I _know_ , I just...I can't think straight right now."

"Well, don't worry. You have four whole days--I'm sure you'll think of something."

 

* * *

 

"Dumas," Enjolras says the next morning, when Grantaire gets into the car.

"Huh?"

"He's usually reading about eight books at a time, but there's always _something_ by Dumas. In French for preference, although he's partial to a certain translation of _The Man in the Iron Mask_...but I don't think that really helps."

"Not unless you take him to Paris. Hey, you should take him to Paris!"

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "I'm not made of money." Maybe in a couple of years, though. They could go in the spring, visit the Louvre, do all the stupid tourist things. He hasn't been to Paris since he was a kid...

But he's still no closer to knowing what to get for Combeferre. If nothing else, the looming anniversary at least serves as a distraction from the constant faint tension of having Grantaire around. The novelty of his presence hasn't worn off by Thursday, and by lunchtime Enjolras is tired of the stares and the un-subtle whispers. He keeps track of the most obvious ones, with an eye to sending Valjean an email and recommending that they never, _ever_ be selected for undercover positions.

Around noon, Grantaire clears his throat. "Hey...can I go out for lunch?"

Enjolras looks up. "Alone?"

"Well...yes? It's just--you're going to work through lunch again, and that's cool, I guess it probably happens a lot, but the sandwich I had yesterday in the cafeteria downstairs made me miss prison food."

Enjolras frowns--maybe he's not the only one who's been uncomfortable with all the attention. "I'll have to turn the radius back on." It's only off when he's accompanied by a federal agent.

"Not a problem; I'm not planning to go far." He picks up his coat.

"You only get an hour," Enjolras calls after him, but the elevator door is already closing.

 

Grantaire hails a cab and gives the driver an address that is exactly one-point-seven miles away. In five minutes, they're pulling up in front of the granite entrance to a library. It's not _the_ library, there are no lions guarding the steps, but it's impressive nonetheless.

More to the point, they're displaying Salvador Dali's original paintings for _Alice in Wonderland_. Grantaire can't resist taking a turn around the display area, just for old times' sake. The display cases are all quarter-inch Lexan, with climate-controlled interiors and alarms set to go off in case of theft, tampering, or any possible occurrence that might threaten the works inside.

But Grantaire is mindful of his precarious freedom, so he tucks his hands into his pockets and wanders the building until he finds the children's department. It's staffed by a lone librarian in a green cardigan over a button-down and a bow-tie, and Grantaire has seen him before, if only at a distance.

The librarian in question is so focused on a computer screen that Grantaire should have at least ten seconds to plan his opening move.

All of which is ruined when Combeferre suddenly looks up at him.

 

For his part, Combeferre has been entirely immersed in a review he's meant to be writing for _The Horn Book_ , and he's slightly panicked, wondering how long a patron has been standing in front of him, waiting to be acknowledged. "Oh! Hi, I'm sorry--can I help you?"

The man frowns. "It's not fair."

"...What's not fair?"

"I can't rock a bow-tie. It's just not something I'm capable of."

Combeferre adds up the blue eyes and curly hair and vaguely anachronistic suit, and he smiles. "You're Grantaire."                                                                               

"You're Combeferre."

"I hear we've met."

"Not quite. Although your wedding cake was delicious."

"Our friends own a bakery together--I'll introduce you sometime. Can I help you with something?"

Grantaire shrugs. "I just thought I'd stop by and say hello."

"And the Dali exhibit has...nothing at all to do with it, I'm sure."

When Grantaire grins, Combeferre abruptly understands why people seem to have such a difficult time saying _no_ to him. "Well. I do appreciate the surrealists."

"Should I call security?"

"No. It would take at least fifteen minutes to counter all the safeguards you have in place. It's a good system."

"I'll pass your compliments on to the security team."

Grantaire checks his watch. "Are you free for lunch? I think we have a few things we could talk about."

Combeferre eyes him evenly for a moment. Obviously Grantaire has some kind of motive for being here, and Combeferre is just interested enough to take the bait. After all, he's heard quite a lot about Grantaire over the last few years--maybe it's time to indulge his own curiosity. "Okay." He slips his phone out of the desk drawer and into his pocket. "I'm going to ask you to turn out your pockets first."

Grantaire does exactly as he's told, laying a wallet down on the table, along with a scattering of change, a handkerchief, and a single key.

"As you can see, no priceless maps or illustrations. Also no razor blades, box-cutters, or lengths of wet string."

Combeferre picks up the wallet and flips through it anyway--he couldn't fit a Dali in there, but there are plenty of illuminated manuscripts whose illustrations might fetch a good price.

"You can check the fifty for a security strip, if you want," Grantaire offers. "But you should know that forging bills is a pain in the ass, and I don't think I could stand to look at Grant's stupid face long enough to copy the portrait."

"Fair enough."

He hands the wallet back to Grantaire, and Grantaire returns his things to his pockets. "Shall we?"

Combeferre nods. "Did you have a place in mind?"

"There used to be a café down the street with really, _really_ good sandwiches..."

"It's still there." He ducks back into the staff room to get his coat, and they walk down to the café against the biting wind. The café is crowded, but they find a table tucked into a corner and order lunch.

"Does he know you're here?" Combeferre asks, after the waiter has dropped off their drinks.

Grantaire tips one shoulder in a shrug. "If he checks the tracking anklet, he will. What about you?"

"I'm not wearing a tracking anklet."

"Are you going to tell him you had lunch with me?"

"I'm not in the habit of keeping secrets from my husband." Although Enjolras' reaction to the news of their lunch is going to be interesting, to say the least.

"Then your Christmases must be very boring."

It probably would seem that way, to someone looking in from the outside. But it doesn't _feel_ boring, not to them, and that's what's important. He changes the subject. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

Grantaire's eyeing him thoughtfully. "What is that?"

"What is what?"

"That accent--it's French, right?"

Combeferre's face heats. "French-Canadian," he says, a little stiffly. "I grew up in Montreal."

"And you've been trying to kill the accent ever since, huh? Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. It's really subtle, honestly--not noticeable at all unless you're in the business of noticing these things."

"Oh? And you're in the business of noticing accents?"

"Sure." Grantaire smiles, and his voice shifts a little bit, turning into a thicker echo of Combeferre's own faint accent. "People are always more willing to trust someone from the old country--even if the 'old country' is Alabama," he adds, giving his voice a Southern hint. "They feel a kinship with you, they _want_ to trust you, and at that point you're halfway in."

"That's devious," Combeferre says, impressed in spite of himself.

"So did you marry Enjolras for a green card?"

"I've had dual citizenship for ten years now."

Grantaire snorts. "Well, that doesn't make for a very interesting story."

"The truth doesn't always abide by the rules of narrative," Combeferre says.

Grantaire looks like he's about to retort, but then the food arrives and the next couple of minutes are silent.

"Anyway, the stuff I wanted to talk about is pretty boring," Grantaire says at last. "Like, Enjolras--he's pretty nice, as FBI agents go, but he's not exactly easy to talk to. And after four years, any friends I had have kind of moved on, so...it's been like four years since I had any reliable access to the news. What do I need to know?"

Combeferre blinks. "You expect me to condense four years into the space of a single lunch?"

"I'm also free this weekend, if you want."

"I'm not. It's our anniversary."

"Oh yeah? Got any plans?"

"Not really. We don't make a big deal out of these things." That said, he has made a certain discreet purchase for the occasion. He elects not to share that information with Grantaire. "So--what do you want to know? Current events, pop culture? You missed the 2012 election, of course."

"I do know who won, thanks. I _tried_ to keep up, honestly, but contact is so limited--and the library was awful. You'd cry if you saw it. Everything's outdated, half the books have missing pages... You know, I still don't fucking know the ending to _And Then There Were None_?"

Combeferre's eyes widen. "But that's the best part!"

"It usually is."

Combeferre falls quiet, wondering if he can get in touch with the prison and try to work with them. The budget's almost certainly negligible, but there must be grants out there...

It takes him a moment to realize that he's neglecting his lunch partner, but Grantaire doesn't seem bothered by it. He's tracing patterns in the pool of condensation left by his drink. He looks up at Combeferre, then down at his own hand, and then away, scanning the room and the slowly dispersing lunch crowd.

Combeferre watches the motion of his hand for a moment. There's a half-finished figure eight, and then a triangle, and then--

Letters. He's tracing _letters_ in the condensation. Upside-down letters, from Grantaire's perspective, and Combeferre watches him while trying not to _look_ like he's watching him. If it's something that Grantaire doesn't even want to say out loud...

Grantaire pauses and then picks up again, and this time Combeferre catches all the letters.

M-W-A-N-T-S-E-N-J-D-E-A-D

 _M wants Enjolras dead_.

Combeferre's hands curl into fists. "Who's M? And how do you know?"

"Someone I met once. You hear things, even in super-max. But we can't talk about it here."

"Where, then?"

Grantaire purses his lips. "Let's take a cab back."

Combeferre doesn't remember paying for the meal or stepping out into the cold while Grantaire hails a taxi. All he can think about is the fact that someone wants his husband _dead_.

It's a risk you take, with a career in the FBI, and he knows there are probably dozens of people who would be happy to be rid of Enjolras' interference. But the thought that someone _specifically_ wants to kill him, is maybe trying to find a way to do it right now, sends Combeferre inching towards the edge of a rare panic attack.

The cab pulls up to the curb, and Combeferre checks to make sure there's a light and a meter and all of the things cabs are supposed to have. Because he can't think of a better trap for Enjolras than using _him_ as bait.

Grantaire climbs in first, which is very faintly reassuring, and Combeferre follows. He wouldn't be surprised if Grantaire was planning to escape FBI custody, but he doesn't really believe that Grantaire would want to harm either one of them. If he wanted to hurt Enjolras, he could have done it already.

The thought sends a horrible chill through Combeferre.

Grantaire gives the library's address to the cabbie, who frowns. "You sure? That's only--"

"Go around the block," Grantaire suggests. "Twice."

He sits back next to Combeferre as the cab pulls out into traffic. "Okay. Pretend you like me."

"What?"

Grantaire rolls his eyes and slings an arm over Combeferre's shoulder. He leans in to whisper in his ear. "Smile, okay? We're friends."

He nods and tries, although it's the last thing in the world he feels like doing. Someone out there wants Enjolras _dead_ , he can't just sit here in this cab and smile like everything's all right.

"I know you're going to want to go home tonight and tell him, but you can't."

"Excuse me?"

"He's not in _immediate_ danger. They want him out of the way, but not with any kind of urgency. If he starts doing things differently, changing his routine, they're going to realize that he's on to them, and they'll step it up. Less concern for collateral damage--hell, they'll probably just burn down your house while you're sleeping in it."

"Oh, Christ," Combeferre mutters.

"Stop that. The driver's going to wonder what I'm doing with my other hand."

"But if you're not going to tell him, then what are you going to _do_ about it?"

"Everything I can. Enjolras got me out of prison to help catch this guy, and the sooner we can do it, the sooner Enjolras is safe. But I can only keep an eye on him eight hours a day. If you notice anything weird-- _anything_ \--call me, okay?"

"How?"

"Check your pockets when you get back to work. There's a card with a number on it."

Combeferre snorts. "Show off."

The cab slows to a stop, and Grantaire grins as he pulls away. "Glad we had this talk," he says. "See you."

Combeferre gets out of the cab and goes back to work, but any hope of productivity has been shot by his conversation with Grantaire. He raids the donation shelves for a few likely books, and he goes straight home after work, skipping the grocery trip he'd planned to make.

He's already up on a step-stool by the time Enjolras comes home.

"What are you doing?" Enjolras asks him, craning his neck towards the ceiling.

"I don't think we've changed the batteries in the smoke detectors since we moved in," Combeferre replies.

"And today seemed like a good day for it?"

He looks down at Enjolras. "If the house catches fire tonight, you'll be glad I did."

"That's fair."

Combeferre tests the smoke detector, wincing as the alarm leaves his ears ringing. Satisfied, he climbs off the ladder and leans in to kiss Enjolras hello.

"How was your day?"

"Boring. Mostly paperwork," Enjolras admits. "How was yours?"

"Interesting. I had lunch with Grantaire."

Enjolras blinks; it's his only sign of surprise.

"He stopped at the library to say hello--and yes, I double-checked all of the Dali illustrations before I left."

"What did he want?"

"An abridged history of the last four years." _And to tell me that someone wants you dead_.

"Well, he's not asking much, is he?"

"Obviously I couldn't cover much in the space of an hour's lunch, but I did try." He folds up the step-ladder and puts it back in the hall closet where it belongs. When he emerges from the closet, Enjolras is eyeing the large cardboard box that is now sitting in the living room. Fitz is up on her back paws, peering over the edge.

Enjolras looks up with a pleading expression. "Tell me they weren't having a deaccessioning sale."

Combeferre shakes his head. "Oh, no--these are for Grantaire."

"What?"

"Well, he's been trying to catch up on things. Books are part of that. And I've been thinking maybe he could use our Netflix while he's here."

"He'll watch something bizarre and ruin all your carefully crafted recommendation categories," Enjolras warns.

"It's a price I'm willing to pay. And it could be important. What if he's undercover and one of his contacts makes a Game of Thrones joke and he doesn't get it?"

"So you want to give him the HBO password, too?"

Combeferre gives him an arch look and says nothing.

"I'm pretty sure that violates the terms of use," is all Enjolras says.

"It could be important," Combeferre repeats. "And the books, well...He said the prison library was awful, which doesn't exactly surprise me even though it makes me so angry I could scream. He said the last few pages were _torn out_ of some of the Agatha Christies. So I gathered up a few things for him."

"A _few_ ," Enjolras echoes.

"I'm not going to pretend to be sorry for getting carried away."

Enjolras starts looking through the pile. Combeferre had tried to include a variety of things--kids' books, nonfiction, adult fiction ranging from fantasy to literary to--

" _Fifty Shades of Grey_? Really?"

Combeferre shrugs. "It's terrible, but it's become sort of a pop-culture touchstone."

"You should just lend him your copy, with the corrections."

"Are you sure you want him to know _that_ much about our sex life?"

"Never mind." Enjolras goes back to rummaging through the box. "Oh my god." He pulls out a brand-new copy of _The Goldfinch_. "He can't read this. It'll give him ideas."

"He can read whatever he wants," Combeferre says grimly.

"Of course he can. I just...never mind. I'll take the books with me when I pick him up tomorrow."

Combeferre smiles and lets Enjolras take his hand and pull him down onto the couch next to him.

"So," Enjolras says. "Other than that, how was your day?"

 

* * *

 

Grantaire spends the evening painting on the balcony, huddled in a coat that belonged to Sister's husband, years ago. It was already getting dark when he came outside, but the glow of the city is more than bright enough to work by.

He loses track of time, a little, and it's after eleven when his fingers start to cramp from the cold. He brings the canvas inside and immediately barks his shin on the leg of the table, because he was too dumb to leave a _light_ on before he went outside, too distracted by the idea of painting the cityscape as the sky darkened and the lights winked on in ten thousand windows...

There's someone else in the apartment. The lights are still off, just like he left them, but there's an _occupied_ feeling to the space, defined by a sigh of breath and a faint hot-metal smell...

A shadow shifts on the sofa across the room.

Grantaire flips on the lights. "Get your boots off Sister's coffee table," he huffs.

Feuilly yawns and obediently removes his workboots from the Chippendale table.

"How did you get in here?"

"I knocked."

"Bullshit."

"I told the housekeeper I was a friend of yours, and Sister had her make me coffee. With whiskey in it. Can I move in?"

"No." Grantaire says. "It's good to see you."

"You too." He stands up and pulls Grantaire into a hug, then steps back to look at him. "You look pretty good for a jailbird."

"Thanks, asshole. You look good, too."

Feuilly drops back onto the sofa and picks up his coffee cup, the one that’s probably forty percent whiskey, because Lizzie doesn't fuck around. "Let me see it."

"See what?"

"The anklet, dumbass. Sister told me about it, and I need to know what we're up against."

"That's not the priority right now--"

Feuilly rolls his eyes. "You call me, tell me you're working for the Feds, and you ask me to meet--and the anklet is _not_ the number-one priority? It's the only thing standing between you and freedom."

"Or life in prison," Grantaire counters ruefully. "If I run and he catches me, I'm back inside for good."

"He's not going to catch you. Lightning doesn't strike twice."

"Tell that to the Empire State Building."

Feuilly flips him off.

"I'm oh-and-two against this guy. And there's something I have to take care of, before I can think about skipping town."

"Aha. I _knew_ you had to have a reason for breaking out."

"I heard something, inside. Maybe it's just a rumor, but I can't take the chance. I've got to find out for sure. After that, you bring Bahorel out to visit with his tools, and..." He waves a hand. "I'm off."

"You need help? Not with the anklet, with--whatever it is."

Four years in prison, and Grantaire still has friends offering to help him at the drop of a hat. If he were a different sort of person, it might bring tears to his eyes. "Maybe. _Probably_. But I don't want to get anyone involved until I have a better idea of what's going on. It might not be safe."

"Nothing fun ever is." Feuilly rises from the couch in a single fluid motion, light on his feet despite the heavy workboots. "You be sure and let me know if you change your mind about the anklet, okay? I know Bahorel would love a chance to relive the glory days."

"Has he ever _stopped_ living them?" Grantaire counters, and Feuilly's grin is sharp enough to cut.

"Nope."

"Good for him. Good for _you_ , too, huh?"

"Shut the fuck up. Call me, okay? You know where to find me."

"Yeah. Thanks for stopping by." Grantaire closes the door behind him and sets the empty coffee cup in the sink. Feuilly's good people, and he's glad to know that there's someone on his side, even after four years. If Montparnasse is really serious about getting rid of Enjolras, then Grantaire is going to need all the help he can get--on both sides of the law.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras brings the box to Sister's on Friday morning. Grantaire eyes him warily, but he holds the door and lets Enjolras heave the box up to his apartment.

"So," Grantaire says, following him up the staircase. "Did you get me a puppy?"

"A pup--? _No_ , for god's sake, there aren't even any air-holes in the box."

"Did you get me _Schrödinger's_ puppy?"

Enjolras drops the box on the floor and opens it. "They're from Combeferre," he explains.

Grantaire's eyes widen as he takes in the contents. "Oh, wow. Tell him thank you." He digs through the pile, flipping through _Fifty Shades of Grey_ with blank curiosity. "What should I start with?"

Enjolras shrugs and fishes a paperback out of the box. "I liked this one."

" _American Gods_?" Grantaire smiles. "I've read it."

"Really?"

"About twelve years ago, yeah. And before you ask, I've also read _The Shawshank Redemption_. And _The Count of Monte Cristo_. And I've seen _The Rock_."

"Fine, just pick one, then. We're going to be late."

"You mean we'll be on time, and not twenty minutes early for once." Grantaire considers the contents of the box and then tucks a paperback into the pocket of his coat, too quickly for Enjolras to catch the title.

They're sitting at a stoplight halfway to the Bureau when Grantaire glances over at him. "So what is it--did you think I'd relate to Shadow and his ex-convict status?"

"You're not an _ex-_ convict," Enjolras points out.

Grantaire shakes his head and looks out the window. "And you, my friend, are no Odin."

Enjolras sighs.

"Wrong pantheon, I think. Helios, maybe, or Mars. Or Apollo--I could see that."

"That's enough," Enjolras says. He's sorry he brought it up, sorry that Combeferre even put that book in the box.

To Enjolras' surprise, Grantaire really does drop the subject after that. He drops everything, in fact, going quiet in a way that seems somehow suspicious. He barely speaks at all through the morning.

"A week isn't a lot of time," Grantaire says quietly, around noon.

Enjolras doesn't have to ask what he means. "I know. We're working on it."

"Are you? Because from here it looks like you're doing a bunch of paperwork and never leaving the office."

"It isn't all kicking down doors and making arrests--though, considering your past experience with the FBI, I can understand how you might come to that conclusion. Eighty percent of casework is paperwork."

"Yeah, but people don't just walk into your office and ask to be arrested, right? You have to actually go out and _do the arresting_."

"Yes, thank you. I'm familiar with the concept," Enjolras says dryly.

"So why aren't you _doing_ it? Why aren't we going after Claquesous?"

"We can't. You know that. There's a process for these things--we need to have probable cause, and we don't have enough proof for a judge to sign off on a warrant."

"But we _know_ he's--"

"It doesn't matter if there's no physical evidence. Take a look at federal warrant law the next time you can't sleep. It's about thirteen hundred pages of light reading."

Grantaire makes a face.

"Exactly. Look, we're...we're doing everything we can," he says awkwardly. "We've been monitoring the phone we found in the locker, but no one's made any calls to or from that number."

"Maybe somebody spotted you opening it, and they abandoned the drop."

"It's possible--though not likely. You don't get to be in Valjean's position unless you're extremely good at your job."

"You also don't get to _Montparnasse's_ position unless you're extremely good at your job."

"And speaking of that, what are _you_ doing to keep the case moving?" Enjolras asks. "Your input is more than welcome, you know."

"Hey, I've already given you the address of the place. I have literally told you what they're doing and where they're doing it. And it's outside my radius, so it's not like I can do recon or anything."

"We acted on your tip. We've got a surveillance camera across the street, trained on the entrance. So far, nothing seems to be out of the ordinary."

Grantaire groans. "The _front door_? Seriously? What, do you think they're going to be lugging armloads of fake Prada bags out onto the street?"

"Of course not. Which is why we have a sensor at both ends of the alley behind the shop, watching for unexpected traffic. If we can get proof of suspicious activity, then we can see about a warrant. We _are_ trying," he says, a bit more gently. "But if we don't follow the law, then we're no better than the criminals we're trying to put away."

"You're telling me you've never met a law you'd like to work around?" Grantaire asks, one eyebrow raised.

Enjolras looks down at the desk. "We are not talking about me," he says stiffly.

"Uh-huh. I've read about you, you know. All those protests at Yale--you ought to be an FBI _file_ , not an FBI agent."

"My record's clean."

"Yeah, I wondered about that. Rich daddy?"

"Friends in law school," he says, turning back to his work.

"That must be convenient. But don't you have to take a polygraph test to be an FBI agent?"

"You do."

"How'd you beat it? --Not that it's possible to beat a polygraph, and I definitely do not know any strategies for doing so," he adds angelically.

"I didn't _beat_ it. I _passed_ it."

"Whatever you say. In that case, tell me--what makes a revolutionary turn his coat and work for the Man?"

Enjolras looks up, wounded, and immediately regrets it when Grantaire grins at him. This is what he wants, a reaction. "I didn't _turn my coat_. There are different ways of working for change."

"Uh-huh."

"Are you wearing a wire for Internal Affairs or something? Trying to get me to cop to revolutionary tendencies?"

"No, I'm just curious."

"Well, cut it out. I still believe in all the things I did when I was in college. I'm just trying to work from the inside now, instead of the outside."

"You say that awfully seriously. Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"

Enjolras slaps his pen down on the table. "Damn it, Grantaire. Do you think I don't see the irony of my position? Do you want me to say that I fight _every single day_ to balance my conscience with my job? To find the line between protecting people from each other and protecting them from themselves?"

Grantaire blinks, and a brief, rueful smile crosses his face. "I seem to have hit a nerve," he says. "I'm sorry. I honestly didn't mean to."

Enjolras grudgingly accepts the apology. "I really hope you're not wearing a wire for Internal Affairs," he mutters.

"Nah. Your secrets are safe with me."

"They're not _secrets_."

"Of course they're not. Anyway, it's good that you work for the FBI. They can't misbehave as long as you're around--you're like a whistleblower waiting to happen. _Enjolras custodiet ipsos custodes_ , right?"

Enjolras frowns at him. "Did you just quote Juvenal at me?"

"Technically, yes, but I was going for the _Watchmen_ reference. Seriously, how is it that I've been in prison for four years and I'm more familiar with pop culture than you are?"

"I've been busy," he says shortly. "I am _still_ busy," he adds, and for once Grantaire takes the hint.

 

 

It's after six when Enjolras looks up and realizes that Grantaire is still there, absently skimming a file.

"Oh--I'm sorry," he says, wincing as a muscle in his neck gives a brutal twinge. "You don't have to stay late just because I'm here...you can go home, if you want."

Grantaire looks skeptical. "I thought you were supposed to take me home."

Enjolras weighs the amount of work he has left with the risk of letting Grantaire go home on his own. "A cab ride back to Sister's won't put you outside your radius," he says. "Go ahead."

"What about you?"

"I'll be here a little while longer."

Grantaire stands up, shaking his head. "I'm going to come in tomorrow and find you passed out right here on the desk, won't I?"

"I will not be passed out at my desk."

"Yeah, whatever you say. See you."

Enjolras murmurs something and waves vaguely in Grantaire's direction, already drawn back into the mire of his paperwork. 

Surprisingly, it only takes him another half-hour. By the time he climbs the front steps and fishes the house key out of his pocket, he wants nothing more than dinner, a kiss from Combeferre, and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.

What he gets is a phone call. He pulls out his phone and answers it while he's unlocking the front door. "Eponine? What's going on?"

"We had an alarm, ten minutes ago--I just confirmed with the Marshals. Grantaire's out of his radius."

Enjolras' heart skips. He should never have let Grantaire leave the office alone--it was a stupid, rookie mistake, and he's _better_ than that. "I just got home; let me duck in and tell Combeferre I'm leaving. Get me Grantaire's current coordinates and I'll meet you there." He stays on the line, waiting for the location, and throws open the front door.

"Hey, I know I just got here, but there was a call and I have to--"

Combeferre and Grantaire are sitting on the sofa, talking, but they break off when they see Enjolras standing in the doorway. Combeferre at least has the grace to look sheepish.

Enjolras takes a breath and finds that it isn't calming at all. "Eponine," he says into the phone, "it's all right. Grantaire's with me."

"He's with _you_?" she asks. "But you just said--"

Enjolras presses the speaker button and holds up the phone. "Say hello, Grantaire."

"Hello, Grantaire," he parrots dutifully. Combeferre covers a sudden laugh with one hand.

Enjolras brings the phone back up to his ear. "Tell the Marshals it's under control, and I'll give them a call when he's back within his radius. Tell them we're _very sorry_ for the confusion." He hangs up and slides the phone into his pocket.

"You're in my house," Enjolras says. "You're in my house, on my couch, with my husband--"

Fitz pads in from the kitchen and leaps onto Grantaire's lap.

"--petting my dog." Enjolras does not need this right now. "Can I talk to you?" he asks Combeferre, nodding towards the kitchen.

Grantaire goes to stand up and nearly unseats Fitz. "I'm sorry, I'll just go..."

"Sit down. I'll take you back to Sister's myself." Enjolras walks out of the living room, and Combeferre follows him into the relative privacy of the kitchen.

"Sorry," Combeferre says. "I should have called."

"You think?" Enjolras counters. "I get an emergency call from the Bureau and it's because you two decided to, what, start a book club? What is going on here?"

"Well, we got along pretty well at lunch yesterday. And I wanted his artist's opinion on the colors for the kitchen remodel..."

" _Seriously_? Combeferre, he's a criminal informant, emphasis on the _criminal_ , and you invited him into our house." There's a series of quiet thumps from the next room. "And now he's playing fetch with Fitz."

"Fitz is an excellent judge of character."

"Fitz would fetch for Genghis Khan if he gave her a piece of bacon first."

"Well, Grantaire didn't give her any bacon. She likes him."

"Combeferre..." Enjolras rubs his temple against a sudden burgeoning headache. This is going to be a disaster as far as keeping Grantaire in check. If he knows he can just circumvent Enjolras'--and the US Marshals'--direct orders, it's only a matter of time before he starts circumventing laws, too.

"I feel like I know him," Combeferre says. "Like I _have_ known him, for about four years."

It's a minor betrayal, but it feels like a stab in the back. "Are you putting this on _me_ now? I know sometimes I bring work home with me, but not like _this_."

"He seemed lonely."

"Yes, he's very good at _seeming_ things," Enjolras says flatly. "It's how he cons people."

"And you think I'm stupid enough to get conned, is that it?" For the first time, there's an edge in Combeferre's voice.

"Of course I don't think you're stupid. You don't have to be stupid to get conned. I just think this is a terrible idea. He's not a _tame_ criminal."

Combeferre's lips go thin in a way that suggests he's trying not to smile. "If you think misquoting C.S. Lewis is going to end this argument, you're wrong."

"Yes, but you're not glaring at me anymore, so it worked." Enjolras sighs and concedes the field. "I just--could we _talk_ about this next time? So that I can clear it with the Marshals, at least?"

Combeferre nods.

"I'm going to take him home now, okay?"

"Sure."

Enjolras walks back into the living room and gestures to Grantaire. "Come on, time to go."

"Am I going to turn into a pumpkin if I'm out past eight?" Grantaire asks, grinning.

"Yes. A pumpkin wearing prison orange."

"You make a compelling argument." He scratches Fitz's neck one more time, then scoops up a book from the coffee table and stands up. He waves to Combeferre. "Good night."

"Good night," Combeferre replies.

"I won't be insulted if you count the spoons." He pauses in the doorway. "I might be more insulted if you _don't_ , actually."

Combeferre laughs and closes the door behind them.

Enjolras tries not to say anything during the drive back to Sister's. Anything that comes out of his mouth right now is unlikely to be civil, anyway. He manages to keep quiet until they pull up at the curb in front of Sister's door. "What were you thinking?" he asks at last. "If I'd spent a little longer at work, the Marshals would have come for you instead of me."

"It was a calculated risk."

"Was it."

"Hey, I was trying to help you out," Grantaire says.

"Leaving your radius to visit my husband was _helping me out_?"

"Yeah. It was recon work, to help you figure out an anniversary present." He grins and climbs out of the car.

"Don't worry about that," Enjolras replies. "I think I've got it covered."

"Well, then...have a good weekend."

Enjolras smiles. "Don't worry. We will."

 

* * *

 

They spend Saturday working on the kitchen--with all of the silverware intact. Combeferre had counted it all before Enjolras got back from Sister's on Friday night.

On Sunday they pick a decent place for dinner, acknowledging that this is a day to be celebrated, even if neither one of them wants to make a big deal out of it. They linger a little over dessert, talking about old times and old friends, and they're still smiling when they step out of the restaurant into the bitter cold wind.

"Whose idea was it to get married in January?" Enjolras asks, half-rhetorically.

Combeferre pauses. "You know, I honestly don't remember."

When they get back home, Combeferre pours them each a glass of wine, and they sit down together on the sofa. Enjolras puts on music in the background, so quietly that it doesn't really matter what it is. At times like this, he wishes they had a fireplace. It's the only thing that could improve the evening.

"So," Enjolras says. "Happy anniversary."

Combeferre kisses him. "You, too."

"I tried to get you a card, but they were all incredibly insipid, so..." He slides a folded piece of paper across the coffee table.

Combeferre sets down his wineglass and unfolds the paper. He scans the list, smiling in a faintly bemused way, and then he looks up. "What is this?"

"It's a list of the books I donated to the library at the upstate super-max in your name."

His eyes widen, and his mouth goes soft. "Oh, _Enjolras_."

"You just seemed so upset about the state of the prison library, and I thought--"

Combeferre kisses him again, slow and soft and lingering. Enjolras smiles into the kiss and pulls him closer, reaching out to set his wineglass on the table before it can come to some disaster. Having two free hands means that he can start unbuttoning Combeferre's white dress shirt, pushing the fabric aside to press his lips to the skin of his throat.

Combeferre's breath is half a groan. "Why don't we go to bed?" he asks.

Enjolras is reluctant to let go, even for a change of venue, but after another brief kiss he pulls back and lets Combeferre lead the way up the stairs. They leave the wineglasses half-full on the table.

There's a brief pause when they get upstairs, because Fitz is curled up in the middle of their bed, and she doesn't particularly like being made to leave it. Enjolras has to put her out of the room and close the door behind her.

When he turns back, Combeferre is standing beside the bed. His shirt is gone, and without his belt his pants are hanging low on his hips.

"I have a confession, too," Combeferre says shyly. "I got you something, too. Well. I got _us_ something."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

"In the nightstand."

Enjolras pulls open the top drawer. Inside is a pair of black leather handcuffs, lined in sheepskin and connected by a short steel chain. "Jesus," he murmurs, lifting them out of the drawer.

"Do you like them?"

Enjolras slides his thumb along the leather. "I like them," he says, after a moment.

"I thought you might. For...special occasions, maybe."

Enjolras suddenly, desperately hopes that this counts as a sufficiently special occasion.

"Can I put them on you?"

Enjolras nods and lies back in the middle of the bed. Combeferre draws his arms up over his head and fastens the cuffs around each wrist, threading the chain around one of the vertical bars that make up their headboard. "Okay?" he asks.

Enjolras twists his arms and tugs, but the cuffs don't move around his wrists. "Yes."

"If you want to stop...?"

"Parakeet," Enjolras confirms. They've tried things like this before, enough to know the rules.

Combeferre presses his palm to Enjolras' cock, over his dress pants. He arches up into the touch, and Combeferre smiles before pulling his hand away. He unfastens the buttons of Enjolras' shirt, pressing his lips to each exposed sliver of skin. Enjolras shivers against him. He wants to reach down, to pull Combeferre up for a proper kiss or at least press their bodies close enough together to get some friction, but he can't. The chain rattles a little against the rail, and Combeferre breathes out a laugh against the skin of Enjolras' hipbone. Enjolras arches up, and Combeferre uses the shift in position to unzip Enjolras' pants and tug them off.

"Everything okay?" he asks, sitting up. His eyes glitter in the half-lit room.

"I...yes," Enjolras replies. He tries to take deep breaths to lessen the pounding of his heart, but it doesn't help much.

Combeferre's hand settles on Enjolras' chest, and he grins. "You _do_ like the cuffs, don't you?" he asks. He bends his head, and his lips find the pulsepoint in Enjolras' neck, teasing at a lovebite he knows he can't leave. Grantaire would never, ever let him live it down and--oh, this isn't the time to be thinking about Grantaire.

Combeferre leans over to open the drawer on the nightstand, and Enjolras draws his knees up, anticipating. He spreads his legs wide for Combeferre to slide first one finger, and then a second inside him, slick with lube.

He breathes out, relaxing against the stretch of it. Combeferre's fingers slip deeper, finding an angle that makes Enjolras gasp.

"Do you want more?" Combeferre asks him, like he's talking about their morning coffee and not about the fingers he's drawing in and out of Enjolras with an appalling slowness.

"No--I'm fine, come on, just..."

Combeferre pulls his fingers out and then stands up to take off the pants he's inexplicably still wearing. Enjolras watches raptly as Combeferre pours out more lube and strokes his own cock. Combeferre draws a shaky breath and kneels down on the bed. Enjolras spreads his legs wider and lifts up to give him a better angle.

It seems to take hours for Combeferre to push inside. He's always so careful, so conscientious, and Enjolras loves him for it even when he thinks it might be the death of him.

"How do you want me?" Combeferre asks, like Enjolras wouldn't have him any way he liked.

"Fast," he manages to say. His face heats--he's not good at this, at asking for what he wants. "Rough, if you--if that's all right."

Combeferre smiles, and his hips snap forward sharply. Enjolras barely manages to bite down on a groan as the first thrust becomes a rolling, relentless pace.

He's going to feel this tomorrow--he'll feel it for _days_ , and the thought of it just makes him push back harder, lifting his hips to meet Combeferre's thrusts. He wraps his hands around the rails of the headboard, clinging to them like his grip can keep him grounded, keep him from flying to pieces.

Then Combeferre's hand curls around Enjolras' cock, stroking quickly to keep time with his thrusts, and Enjolras comes with a shout that he will flatly deny to the end of his days.

Combeferre follows him, going still over Enjolras as his cock pulses inside of him.

For a long moment, neither of them moves. It's all they can do to remember to breathe. Finally, Combeferre lifts his head and carefully pulls out of Enjolras. He unfastens the cuffs and guides Enjolras' arms back down to his sides. "Are you all right?"

"Perfect," Enjolras murmurs. "I like your present."

"Mm. Happy anniversary," Combeferre whispers, and Enjolras gives a sleepy little laugh.

"Yeah. You too."

 

* * *

 

"Well. Happy anniversary to you, huh?"

Enjolras frowns at Grantaire. "What are you talking about?"

"You blinked."

"Excuse me?"

"When you sat down just now, you blinked. Like maybe you felt a muscle twinge or something? I mean, not to pry, or anything..."

Enjolras presses the intercom button that connects him to Eponine's desk. "Ep, can you get the Marshals on the line? Someone _really_ wants to go back to prison today."

Grantaire holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, I take it back. I'm glad you had a nice evening, that's all."

Enjolras rolls his eyes.

"So what did he get you?"

"That is _absolutely_ none of your business."

"What did you get him?"

Enjolras pauses. "I honestly hope you never have to find out," he says at last.

Grantaire frowns. Good--let him mull that one over for a while.

"Oh, by the way. I got _you_ something, too." Enjolras opens the desk drawer.

Grantaire bats his eyelashes. "But darling, _our_ anniversary isn't until Wednesday."

Enjolras hands him a flash drive without bothering to comment.

"What's on this?"

"You were asking about warrant law the other day. The book itself is sort of unwieldy, so I got you a digital copy."

"You know, I think the thrill is gone from our relationship," Grantaire says dryly, but the flash drive vanishes from his fingertips. Enjolras valiantly avoids reacting to the sleight-of-hand.

"Call me if you need help with the legalese."

"Hey, now. We didn't all go to Yale, but I am actually literate, thanks."

"Uh-huh. In that case, call me when you start getting a migraine. I want to see how far you make it."

"I'll make sure to call you at three in the morning to help me determine the difference between _therefore_ and _therefor_."

Enjolras wishes he didn't know exactly what Grantaire meant.

"Anyway, what's on the crime-fighting agenda for today?"

"Department meeting," Enjolras says. "Which means you'll go downstairs to Records and help them with the filing."

Grantaire puts on an absurdly pathetic pout. "Why do I have to do filing? It's not like I've done anything wrong!"

"Records is not a punishment. It's just the most efficient use of your time while I'm in a meeting."

Grantaire continues to grumble until the 9am meeting, but he doesn't argue anymore.

Enjolras, for his part, would have preferred a day in Records. The meeting drags on, and the wide windows of the meeting room let the sun in. It shines on the back of his neck, a promise of warmth that he knows the winter day won't keep, but he wishes he were elsewhere anyway. It's surprisingly dull stuff--case closure rates, paperwork, basic departmental housekeeping. A couple of people volunteer for tasks, and Enjolras is ashamed to realize that he's not quite sure what they're volunteering for.

When the meeting adjourns, he tries to make up for his inattention by stopping to speak with Valjean. "Sir, is there anything I can do to help?"

Valjean raises an eyebrow. "I think you've got enough on your plate just now," he says.

"Yes, sir."

"Any progress on Claquesous?"

"Not really. Nothing from the bugged phone, and nothing suspicious at the butcher shop."

"Maybe they've moved their base of operations."

"Or maybe they were never there to begin with," Enjolras says grimly.

Valjean gives him a knowing look. "You don't really believe that."

"No. But it would be easier to send him back if he'd lied to us."

"Well, no one's made any arrangements for his return yet," Valjean replies. "You know what they say about counting chickens."

"Yes, sir."

He goes back to his desk and calls down to Records to spring Grantaire. He comes up grinning like a man released from the gallows, and Enjolras vows to ignore him simply for his peace of mind.

Because he's ignoring him, he doesn't realize right away w hen Grantaire's mood changes. He glances over, wondering if a coffee break might appease Grantaire after the hours in Records, and finds him looking blankly down at the file in his lap.

"Grantaire?"

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah, fine. Just counting down the hours to Wednesday," he says, with a rueful twist of his lips.

Forty-five, if the Marshals wait until 9am. The least they could do would be to let him sleep in. "Don't do that to yourself. We don't know anything for sure yet--"

"Don't lie to me, okay? We're not going to be able to break this case open in two days. It's been weeks since I told you about the drop at Penn Station, and nothing's changed."

"That's not...we could still get a break in the case," Enjolras insists. He doesn't tell Grantaire that he's going to request an extension from the Marshals--it's a long shot, and it wouldn't be fair to raise Grantaire's hopes like that.

Grantaire nods, like he believes Enjolras, and dredges up a smile from somewhere. "Well, at least today wasn't a complete loss. I've got a date."

"How on earth did you get a date in the last four hours?"

"Cute guy in Records. Alex? Last name starts with an L, I wasn't really listening..."

"Le Cabuc?" Enjolras knows him only vaguely. Sort of tall, possibly blond.

"Yeah, that's it. So, you know, I might go back to prison in two days, but at least I've got a chance of getting laid first."

"There," Enjolras says. "I knew you'd find a bright side eventually."

He's careful to leave work at a reasonable time. He doesn't want to make Grantaire late-- _not_ that he cares about the fact that Grantaire has a date, and that there's probably some fraternization rule somewhere in the FBI handbook that prohibits exactly this sort of thing. If Grantaire's only got another day of freedom, he might as well enjoy it.

 

* * *

 

Nothing moves on Tuesday. No calls, no sudden flurry of suspicious activity at the butcher shop. Grantaire gets quieter and quieter as the afternoon goes on. When Enjolras drops him off at Sister's, his "Good night" falls flat and heavy. Grantaire fakes a smile and shuts the car door.

The call comes before dawn on Wednesday morning. Enjolras fumbles for the phone on the nightstand before it can wake Combeferre.

"We need you in the office," Valjean says. "Grantaire's cut his anklet."

The temperature in the room seems to drop twenty degrees. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes," he says.

He gets dressed on autopilot, not taking time for niceties like a shower or a shave. Grantaire's not going to lose heart and hole up in a warehouse this time (though he'll send a team out there, just in case)--cutting the anklet is a decisive step. He's running for good, and he's not coming back unless Enjolras _drags_ him back.

Combeferre stirs. "Everything okay?"

Enjolras bites his lip and lies. "Yeah, it's fine. Go back to sleep." He'll find out soon enough anyway--there's no reason for _both_ of them to lose sleep over it.

Fourteen minutes after the call, Enjolras pushes open the door of the White Collar office. It's a skeleton crew at this hour, but Valjean and Eponine are already there, accompanied by a few teams' worth of field agents, all clearly roused from sleep like Enjolras.

"He cut the anklet? _Really_?" He wants someone to contradict him, to apologize for waking him up for no reason. To tell him that Grantaire hasn't taken the generosity of the FBI and the US Marshals and thrown it back in their faces. He'd talked to Grantaire barely eight hours ago, and he hadn't shown any signs that he was about to pull something like this.

Then again, Grantaire's _never_ shown signs of what he was going to do next.

The question was largely rhetorical, but Eponine answers him anyway. "We think he was trying to disable the alarm, but it didn't work. The signal flickered for a couple of seconds and then went out."

"Flickered?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have a recording of it? I want to know exactly how this happened."

Eponine reaches for the laptop. Enjolras waits for Valjean to say something, but he's standing back, letting Enjolras take the lead. It's a weird feeling, but Enjolras doesn't have time to process that right now. Anyway, he knows Grantaire better than anyone--even Le Cabuc, date or no date--and he's the best chance they have of getting him back.

Eponine flips the laptop over into tablet mode and taps the screen. It shows the location of the signal, complete with timestamp--Sister's house, half an hour ago. The signal cuts out abruptly, only to return and vanish again, several times in a row. Each disconnect generates its own alarm, so the alert turns into a series of long and short signals, like--

"Morse Code."

"Yeah, kind of sounds like that, doesn't it?"

Enjolras turns up the volume. "Play it again."

Eponine makes a face at him. "You think he's trying to _tell_ us something?"

"Play it over again," he says sharply. He focuses on the pattern of long and short tones, trying to separate them into letters.

The recording ends, and Eponine snorts. "U Z A Q I D O? That's not a message, it's a Scrabble rack."

"I don't think they're letters--not all of them. The pauses are wrong."

"Well, I doubt sending Morse code with a broken tracking anklet is an exact science."

"One more time." He closes his eyes and focuses on the tones. "Two, three, C, A, two."

"That makes _so_ much more sense," Eponine replies dryly.

Enjolras has to admit that it doesn't make much sense to him, either, unless it's a license plate, or some kind of code within a code. But why would Grantaire send them an encrypted message in Morse code using the broken signal of his own anklet?

Maybe there is no code. Maybe he's just making a run for it, and every second Enjolras wastes trying to find a nonexistent pattern allows Grantaire to lengthen his lead. Maybe he planted a nonsense signal on purpose to distract him. But he can't help trying to find the pattern anyway. It's the same thing that drives conspiracy theorists--the undying instinct to make sense out of the senseless. Two-three-C-A-two. What could that possibly designate? Could it be a case number, something out of the day he spent in Records? Or--

Enjolras looks up. "I gave him a digital copy of warrant law last week, when he asked why we couldn't just go in and get Claquesous. Section twenty-three, paragraph C, subsection A-2--what's that?"

One of the field agents dives for his laptop, and Enjolras takes advantage of the brief quiet to look over at Valjean, uncertainly. Valjean just nods, the tiniest fraction of a movement, and Enjolras takes a deep breath. He can do this, he _can_ , and if he's wrong, if Grantaire really has tried to run, then he can catch him again.

"Exigent circumstances," the intern says. "Section twenty-three is all about exigent circumstances."

For one moment, Enjolras feels terribly, gloriously vindicated. He was right, it _was_ a message, and Grantaire isn't running. Then the implications of the code sink in. "Son of a bitch." Enjolras scoops up his keys from the table. "I want two field teams assembled and ready to go _now_."

Eponine stands up and checks her shoulder rig. "You know where he is?"

"He's going after Claquesous, and he's going to get himself killed."

It takes twenty minutes to outfit the teams, which is at least fifteen minutes too long. Enjolras outlines the plan to Eponine as he's making it, revising in mid-sentence and scrapping plans as soon as they're spoken.

He tosses the keys to her. "I'll meet you down at the car," he says finally, and Eponine runs for the bank of elevators. Enjolras lets himself have five seconds, long enough for one good deep breath, and then he makes to follow her.

That's when he realizes he's completely forgotten about Valjean. He turns back, his face prickling with heat.

"Sir--" He breaks off, wondering how far he's overstepped himself.

"I believe you have an operation to head," Valjean says mildly. "I'm not sure if he needs apprehending or rescuing, but either way, you have it under control. I'll keep an eye on things here."

He takes a deep breath. "Thank you, sir."

Eponine is waiting for him by the car. "QUAD, by the way," she says. "You can make QUAD with that Scrabble rack."

Enjolras appreciates that she's trying to lighten the tension, but he's beyond help at this point. He _needs_ the tension, needs the focus, or Grantaire's going to get hurt.

He ends up directing the two teams to set up at either exit of the butcher shop, in case anyone panics and starts running as soon as they walk in. He cedes rank and asks Eponine to drive, because he's on the phone coordinating a dozen agents and trying not to let his concern for Grantaire's safety get in the way of closing the case.

 _Exigent circumstances_. It's a relatively straightforward principle: A federal agent can pursue a fugitive onto private property, and when he does so, he is authorized to seize any evidence in plain sight. The evidence doesn't have to be related to the fugitive in question, and that's why Grantaire's running to Claquesous now. As soon as Enjolras chases him into the shop, anything that's lying out in the open becomes evidence.

But Enjolras is increasingly concerned about the condition in which they're going to find Grantaire. He's had more than a half-hour's head start on them already, which means he's almost certainly inside the shop now, waiting for Enjolras to break down the door and come in after him. There's no one in the world capable of talking himself out of a bullet the way that Grantaire could, but he doesn't know what Grantaire had to do to get inside. It could be that they're not much interested in talking anymore.

The butcher shop looks completely empty when they pull up in front of it. Enjolras passes through the alley to the back of the building, but there's no sign of activity there, either.

On the ground beside the back door, half-hidden in a patch of slushy snow, is a familiar cufflink. Enjolras doesn't know if it was dropped on purpose, to shore up a probable-cause claim, or if it fell off during some kind of scuffle.

He turns to the team behind him. "I have reasonable suspicion that there's a fugitive inside," he says. It's important to explain everything as clearly as possible, so that all of the agents are on the same page. It's surprising how calm his voice sounds, even though his heart is pounding.

"You want us to get the door?" one of the field agents asks.

He nods at her. "Break it down."

The ram knocks the door aside on the first blow, and then training takes over. People are moving everywhere in the confusion, shouting and scrambling. One person runs to the middle of the room and seems to _disappear_ until Enjolras sees that he's climbed down some sort of open shaft, maybe down to a basement. It doesn't take long for the agents to get control of the situation, herding the others away from the escape hatch in the center of the room.

Only after the training releases him does he look for Grantaire.

He's still on his feet, standing with his hands raised, facing down Claquesous. Instead of a gun, Claquesous is holding a long, viciously sharp meat-hook in one hand. Grantaire's jacket is ripped, but there's no blood that Enjolras can see. He trains his gun on Claquesous.

Claquesous looks away from Grantaire as the FBI agents surround him, and Grantaire takes the opportunity to slide another step back, out of Claquesous' reach.

Claquesous, to his credit, doesn't panic. He draws himself up furiously. "You can't come in here! You have to have a warrant!"

"Actually, I don't," Enjolras says. "Exigent circumstances. When an agent is pursuing a fugitive onto private property, he has the right to seize any evidence in plain sight--whether it's related to the fugitive's crime or not." He glances up. "Isn't that right, Grantaire?"

"I think I read that somewhere, yeah."

"Drop the weapon," Enjolras says to Claquesous.

His hand clenches around the base of the meat-hook, like he's about to take a swing at Grantaire anyway, and Enjolras' world narrows, waiting for the shift of muscle that would indicate he's going to attack--

Claquesous' hand falls open, and the meat-hook clatters to the floor. Enjolras takes a deep breath and lowers the gun. "You're under arrest."

After that, it's over in less than a minute. The handful of other people in the room surrender without argument, and Eponine calls in another team to bag up all of the sewing equipment and the half-assembled knock-offs sitting around on tables and in open boxes. They'll have to get a warrant if they want to search the rest of the premises, but they could build a solid case on what they've got here.

Enjolras reads Claquesous his rights and takes a thoroughly unprofessional satisfaction in fastening the handcuffs around his wrists. He looks at Grantaire. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He nudges the fallen meat-hook with the toe of his shoe. "Nice timing, though."

"Warrant law, huh?"

He shrugs. "I couldn't sleep."

Enjolras makes sure that at least three people have eyes on Claquesous as they wait for the transport vans, but he takes the time to examine the mysterious hole in the floor. The faint smell rising from it is enough of a clue to where it leads. "They cut their way into the sewer--no wonder we never noticed too many people coming in or out, or staying too long."

"Yeah," Grantaire says. "They're regular ninja turtles." He shifts his weight anxiously. "So...how much trouble am I in?"

Enjolras gives him an exasperated look. "You cut your anklet. According to the terms of your release, the deal is off."

He pales a little. "But--"

"But you did it in the service of catching Claquesous, so I don't expect Valjean to force the issue." And if Valjean is satisfied, there's a chance that the Marshals will let it slide, but he can't promise Grantaire that.

"You could just be a little selective in your reporting," Grantaire suggests.

"Selective _how_?"

"You could say it was an equipment malfunction."

"Grantaire, that's not 'selective reporting,' that's _falsifying a report_."

"Potato, potahto."

The transport vans pull up, and Enjolras watches Claquesous' people being guided inside. "Come on," he says at last. "There's work to do."

By the time they get back to the office, the regular morning shift is trickling in, and word of Claquesous' arrest is spreading through the ranks like wildfire. People keep stopping by Enjolras' desk to congratulate them on the capture, distracting him from the wrap-up work he needs to be doing. Valjean even gives him a nod, and he doesn't say anything about Grantaire's unorthodox assistance.

When Enjolras does find a free minute, he uses it to compose his report on the case. There will be enough paperwork to last for days, timelines and due process and undoubtedly at least one court appearance to testify how the arrest went down. The legal department will probably have an aneurysm when it comes to how Grantaire led them there, but it doesn't count as entrapment. Technically.

Just before noon, Grantaire coughs pointedly, and Enjolras realizes that he can't remember the last time he said anything to him. "Yes?" he asks, without looking up.

"It looks you're going to be busy for a while, so I was thinking I'd go on a coffee run--you like yours with cream, right? And Eponine takes hers with sugar, so I'll just--"

Enjolras clears his throat.

"What?"

He looks up from his computer with a raised eyebrow. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Oh, yeah. Valjean's coffee is hazelnut, right?"

Enjolras opens one drawer of his desk and pulls out an anklet.

"You have a spare," Grantaire says, dejected.

"I probably ought to have _ten_ spares. But yes--we had the Marshals send an extra one in case there was a malfunction."

Grantaire heaves an earth-shaking sigh. "All right," he says. He props his foot on the edge of Enjolras' desk and lets him fasten the anklet around his leg without complaint. "Are you happy now?"

"Just a minute." Enjolras calls up the Marshals' tracking program and makes sure that the anklet is transmitting properly. "Okay. You can go."

Grantaire stands up, rolling his ankle around until the anklet sits more comfortably. "I wasn't going to run away on a _coffee break_ , you know. Not enough lead time."

"Of course."

"Now, if you'd let me go home without it tonight...I couldn't make any promises."

"I wouldn't expect you to." Enjolras fishes a twenty out of his wallet. "Now go get us some coffee. Don't forget your own."

Valjean stops by, not long after Grantaire leaves. "Well done," he says.

"Thank you, sir." He still feels guilty about having taken over the operation without Valjean's official permission, but Valjean doesn't seem to mind it.

"It looks like we'll have him on the knock-off bags--though that's surprisingly small-time for an associate of Montparnasse. A couple of years, maybe less, if he has a lawyer who can cut him a good deal."

"If he can lead us to Montparnasse, I don't care if he walks out with probation."

"There's no overt connection to Patron-Minette, though--not unless Claquesous chooses to be a bit more forthcoming."

"He hasn't said anything yet?"

Valjean shakes his head. "He's stonewalling."

Enjolras' heartbeat quickens. If they can't connect Claquesous to Montparnasse, then the case is useless as far as sustaining Grantaire's situation. "There's supposed to be something in the bags, maybe the lining."

"Supposed to be?"

"That's what Grantaire told me, the first time I went to see him."

"Ah."

"Sir, everything else he's given us has been good intel. He promised us Claquesous, and he delivered."

"That he did," Valjean replies.

"And this is the first step towards getting Montparnasse. If Grantaire goes back to prison now, we'll lose our best hope of taking out the Patron-Minette organization."

He gives Enjolras a steady look. "I don't believe I said anything about sending him back."

"Not in so many words, no. But I know how Assistant Director Javert feels about this project, and if he's pressuring you to end the arrangement with Grantaire--"

"I can handle Javert," Valjean says, so calmly that Enjolras can't help but believe it. "We're having a team disassemble a few of the bags--if they find anything interesting, I'm sure we'll be the first to know."

"Yes sir. I--"

"Oh." Grantaire stops in front of the desk, a drinks carrier in his hand, and looks between Enjolras and Valjean with a slightly hunted air. "Um, sorry. I can just..." He makes to leave.

"No, don't go," Valjean says. "We were just discussing the morning's excitement."

"Oh."

"And where were you?"

"On a coffee run," Grantaire says, glancing over at Enjolras.

"At my request," Enjolras adds.

Grantaire holds out a cup. "This one's yours, sir," he says. "Hazelnut, right?"

Valjean holds his gaze for a moment. "You don't miss anything, do you?"

"I try not to."

Valjean takes the coffee. "Thank you. You did good work today--I'll let you get back to it now."

Enjolras manages to get in another few hours of work with minimal interruptions, fueled by the extremely good coffee Grantaire brought him. But since he'd gotten into the office before five this morning, Valjean makes him go home before three.

"Your overtime is already making payroll angry, and it's _January_ ," he says, conveniently ignoring the fact that Enjolras is on salary so there's no such thing as overtime.

"Grantaire's been here that long, too," Enjolras says, giving him a sidelong look. "Should I take him back?"

Valjean nods. "I'll see you both tomorrow."

 

 

Enjolras gets home and fidgets for the ensuing two hours, picking things up and putting them down, loading the laundry into the dryer and forgetting to turn it on. He feels oddly disconnected, purposeless--but it's always like this after he closes a major case. He's been so focused on catching Claquesous that he's not sure what to do with himself now that it's done. 

Combeferre gets home around five. "How did it go?"

"How did what go?"

"Work. You got called in early, and I didn't hear anything from you after that. Is everything okay?"

"Oh--yes. We got Claquesous." He explains everything as quickly as he can, without the tedious detail he's had to put into the reports today. "Anyway, I'm just a little scattered right now," he admits.

"I'm glad it worked out--for both of you." He turns on the dryer and kisses Enjolras lightly. "Drinks?"

Enjolras takes a deep breath. He could do with a little noise and crowd right now, an excuse to get out of his own head. "That sounds great."

Combeferre tosses Enjolras' coat to him. "We should pick Grantaire up on the way."

He pauses in the act of buttoning his coat. "We should?"

"If _you're_ feeling adrift, how do you think he feels? You do this all the time, after all."

Enjolras has to acknowledge the sense of that statement, although he feels guilty for not having considered it before. Combeferre calls for a cab to take them to Sister's.

It's almost nine when Enjolras climbs the stairs and knocks on Grantaire's door. He hadn't bothered calling ahead, which is probably why he hears Grantaire call, "Come in, Sister."

Enjolras steps inside. "Sorry, it's not Sister."

Grantaire is standing at a canvas with a paintbrush in his hand, and the color drains from his face when he sees Enjolras. "Are you taking me back?"

"What?" Enjolras takes a step forward, and Grantaire paces back in response. Enjolras stops in his tracks and holds up empty hands. "What's going on?"

The apartment is freezing, because one massive glass door is open to the balcony outside. A stiff winter breeze stirs the curtains, but Grantaire is barefoot, wearing a thick green sweater and jeans.

"Are you here to take me back to prison?" Grantaire asks, very quietly.

" _No_ , of course not." The open window, the fresh canvas--he's been enjoying his freedom, because he expects it to be taken away from him at any moment. "I actually came to ask if you wanted to go out for a drink, to celebrate closing the case. Combeferre's in a cab out front."

"Oh."

"Have you been sitting up here _waiting_ for me to come and take you back to prison?" Enjolras feels suddenly, overwhelmingly guilty for not reassuring him, even though he's had no official word that Grantaire's release has been extended.

"To be honest, I sort of expected it would be the Marshals. For what it's worth, I was _hoping_ it would be you. If it had to happen, I mean."

"I'm so sorry. If I'd known--"

Grantaire shakes his head. "No, I didn't say it to make you feel guilty or anything. It's just...there's a lot of stuff to miss, you know? You can't get paints like this inside. Or sushi," he says, very seriously.

Or a good breeze, Enjolras imagines, tinged with the smell of impending snow. He weighs every word before he says it, like this is a fairy tale and his words can be twisted against him. "I promise that I will do everything in my power to keep the Bureau from sending you back. And if it has to happen, I'll fight to be the one to come and get you."

Grantaire nods, and a little bit of the tension fades from his posture. "Thank you."

"So, would you like to go out for a drink with us?"

"Yeah," he says, with a wan smile. "I really would."

Enjolras waits while Grantaire ducks into the bathroom to change. The unfinished painting reminds him of a Monet, if Monet had ever painted the Chrysler building. The colors are bright and warm, and Enjolras can almost feel the heat of sunlight on the stone. He wonders, not for the first time, why Grantaire turned his talents to crime instead of something positive instead. He doubts he'll ever get the chance to hear the real story; he wonders if he'd even believe it, if Grantaire told him.

Grantaire reappears, free of paint, and lifts a navy-blue pea coat off the back of a kitchen chair. "Okay," he says. "Let's go."

Enjolras leads the way back down to the cab. He doesn't want to think about how much this interlude has driven up the meter. They all crowd into the backseat and Combeferre grins when Grantaire joins them.

"Change of plans," Enjolras says, leaning over to talk to Combeferre. "If you don't mind. Sushi?"

The look Grantaire turns on him is soft and absurdly grateful, and Combeferre glances at him before he answers. "Sure."

They end up at a place just on the edge of Grantaire's radius. Enjolras and Combeferre have been here once or twice before. There's a dance floor at one end of the long bar, and cozy booths at the other. They sit together in a booth and order three different sushi rolls to share, and the wait-staff keeps them well-supplied with sake.

Enjolras lets Combeferre carry most of the conversation, letting himself drift back into focus like a developing photograph. They've finished the sushi and are on the third round of sake when he looks up at Grantaire.

"If I do get ordered to take you back, are you going to run?"

To his credit, Grantaire doesn't look thrown by the sudden change of topic. He just sighs. "I'll try not to," he says, surprisingly quiet. "I just...I don't know if I can do it again. You forget, after a while, how bad it was at the start. Like it was a fever-dream, or something. It's a coping mechanism--you block it out. But it's sort of coming back, the panic and the claustrophobia and everything, and I just..."

Enjolras pushes the rest of his own drink over to Grantaire, who downs it with a look of thanks. "I don't want to go through it again, that's all."

"I know," Enjolras says. "And I told you before, I'll do what I can to make sure you don't have to." This isn't something he should be saying in front of witnesses, not even witnesses with spousal privilege, but he doesn't particularly care at the moment.

"And even if you _did_ have to go back," Combeferre puts in, "it would be different."

"Different how?"

"Well, for one thing--you'd have visitors."

Grantaire's laugh is strained, and if he rubs at one eye in the quiet that follows, nobody decides to comment on it.

When Combeferre slides out of the booth to find the restroom a few minutes later, Enjolras leans forward to talk to Grantaire. "Listen, I need to apologize. All of the times I joked about sending you back..."

Grantaire shakes his head. "I know you didn't mean it. Abuse of power is anathema to you. You're constitutionally incapable of pulling rank like that."

"I still shouldn't have said those things, and I'm sorry."

"All right, apology accepted. But it's okay-- _really_."

"If you say so." Enjolras lets the subject drop when Combeferre comes back.

Grantaire takes another sip of sake and looks between the two of them. "Okay, so I've been dying of curiosity for like four years now, and your wedding toasts were annoyingly vague. How on _earth_ did you guys meet?"

Combeferre and Enjolras exchange glances.

"Canada Day," Enjolras says, smiling. "Or the very small hours of the day _after_ Canada Day, I guess, in our third year of college. We'd been at a party at a mutual friend's house. He introduced us, and I remember thinking that Combeferre was gorgeous, but then the hallway mirror fell on Bossuet and I sort of lost him in the chaos."

"The mirror _fell on a guy_?" Grantaire asks. "What kind of party was this?"

Combeferre shrugs. "He was fine. That's just the kind of thing that happens to Bossuet. Joly, one of Courfeyrac's housemates, had some butterfly closures in the medicine cabinet upstairs, and he took care of him. Fifteen minutes later someone found them making out in the hall closet, and they haven't really stopped since."

Enjolras picks up the ceramic pitcher of sake and pours them each another cup. "Between the two of them and the two of us, Courfeyrac says it was the most successful party of his life."

"Anyway," Combeferre continues, lifting his cup in thanks, "I left the party a while after that. I guess I was a little worse-off than I realized, because I decided that the university had not been properly appreciative of the birth of my homeland, so I started singing the national anthem--at top volume. In the middle of the quad."

Enjolras picks up the story. "I must have left just a few minutes after he did. We both lived on the other side of campus from Courfeyrac, so it was a long walk. Before I even got to the edge of the quad, I could hear someone singing 'O, Canada.' And the thing you have to realize is that Combeferre--" He reaches across the table to cover Combeferre's hand with his own. "Okay, I love you, but you can't carry a tune."

"I can't," he agrees sadly. "At best I sort of drag it, like a dead body."

"So I caught up to him, and recognized him from the party. He explained the Canada thing, and we realized we lived pretty close to each other, so we decided to walk together as far as we could. And every now and then, while we were walking, he'd just burst into song again. We were _almost_ off campus when we ran into a university security guard. He told us that there had been reports of a disturbance, and we both knew he was talking about Combeferre singing. And Combeferre _freaked out_ , trying to hide behind me and muttering about how he was going to get expelled and have his student visa revoked and get deported back to Canada, so I took a calculated risk. In my less-than-sober logic, I figured that since I was an American citizen--"

"Not to mention so white that you _glow in the dark_ ," Combeferre adds pointedly.

"--that, too--I had less at stake than Combeferre did. So _I_ started singing."

Combeferre grins. "It was amazing. He got through exactly two words, and then you could see on his face that he'd made a mistake. Because Enjolras, like a good little insular American, didn't know any of the words past _O, Canada_. There was this pause, and his eyes got really wide, and then he started singing about whatever Canadian things he could think of--maple trees and hockey and poutine and nationalized health care. At one point he switched to French, and in his _atrocious_ Parisian accent started singing very passionately about Quebec's struggle for independence. I think it went on for five minutes--and the best part is that Enjolras was trying to mimic me the whole time. He has a great voice, don't ever let him tell you otherwise, but it all came out in this really low frog-croak, and I _still_ think I cracked a rib trying not to laugh."

Grantaire's smiling himself, now. "Don't tell me the security guard bought it."

"Of course he did! Because _he didn't know the words, either_. He wound up just telling Enjolras to pipe down and go home, so we did. Enjolras walked me back to my place and dropped me off at my door, and that's the story of how we met."

"Wow," Grantaire begins, but Enjolras interrupts him.

"Oh, no, you're leaving out the best part," he protests. "The next morning--okay, early afternoon--someone knocked on my door, and it was Combeferre. I thought he'd come to thank me for, you know, _saving his ass from deportation_ , but instead he demanded that I buy him lunch, as restitution for impugning the honor of the Canadian people."

"It was justified," Combeferre counters sulkily. "Dudley Do-Right is _not_ a component of the Canadian national anthem."

"I know that. You were very insistent on that point," Enjolras says, with an amount of fondness that would be extremely embarrassing if he were just a little less tipsy.

The conversation dips into a friendly lull, and Combeferre's eyes keep straying towards the dancers at the other end of the room.

"Do you guys dance?" Grantaire asks. "You can go ahead, you know, I won't mind."

Combeferre glances over at Enjolras. "No, we're fine."

"I'm about as good at dancing as he is at singing," Enjolras explains. "I've _tried_ , I even took lessons for a while, but I'm an embarrassment at anything more complicated than a waltz."

Grantaire laughs. "So you can't dance, and _he_ can't sing. What the hell do you do for fun?"

Enjolras looks over at Combeferre and raises an eyebrow.

"Wow. Forget I asked," Grantaire says hollowly.

"Get your mind out of the gutter. We go to museums and shows, we leave the city and go hiking."

"We also do a fair amount of the other thing," Combeferre puts in, and Enjolras' face flares hot.

"You are cut off," he mutters, sliding the cup of sake away from his husband.

Grantaire nods. "You two are sickening."

"Do _you_ dance?" Enjolras asks Grantaire, frowning.

He smiles loftily. "I have been known to dance, on occasion."

"Then why don't you two go?" he asks, and Combeferre stares at him. "What? You'll have a better time than you would if _I_ tried to dance with you, and I'll just stay here and keep the sake company for a few minutes."

Combeferre slides out of the booth and holds out a hand to Grantaire, and they slip through the crowd towards the dance floor. Enjolras leans back and watches them dance.

The frantic beat of the music changes after a minute or two, sliding into something slow and bluesy. Enjolras isn't sure what to call the dance that they're doing now, except that it seems to involve a frankly unnecessary amount of hip action. He can't stop watching, and the heat that blooms in his chest is something more than sake and less than jealousy.

They don't dance for long; it's getting late, after all, and they all have to be at work tomorrow. Combeferre leads Grantaire back to the table, grinning. His eyes are bright, and Enjolras would like to take him home _right now_.

"I'll call a cab," he says, when he works a little bit of moisture back into his mouth.

It's freezing on the sidewalk. For the first few seconds, it's a welcome change from the stuffy warmth inside, but then the cold seeps in and they stand shivering on the curb until the cab pulls up.

They crowd into it, and Enjolras ends up on one end, with Grantaire in the middle. It's probably for the best; if he was sitting next to Combeferre, they would have ended up making out like teenagers, and that's really not a respectable sort of thing to do in front of your CI.

When the cab pulls up at Sister's house, Grantaire _and_ Combeferre get out.

"I'll walk you up," Combeferre says.

Grantaire grins and leans back into the cab. "Don't worry," he tells Enjolras. "I won't go in for a goodnight kiss."

 

 

Combeferre walks up the stairs with Grantaire and, at Grantaire's gesture, into the apartment itself.

"Everything okay?" Grantaire asks.

"I just wanted to ask if you'd heard anything about...what we discussed over lunch," Combeferre says delicately, remembering how careful Grantaire had been to avoid saying anything out loud.

Grantaire shrugs off his coat. "Nothing conclusive. I've got a couple of people looking into things--all trustworthy, don't worry."

"Don't _worry_?" Combeferre echoes. "After what you told me, I'm supposed to not worry?"

"There's nothing to worry about--nothing concrete, anyway," he allows. "This isn't something Monty would trust to an amateur, and his favorite operatives aren't even in the city right now."

"Maybe he's gotten new favorites in the last four years," Combeferre snaps. It's too sharp, and his own harshness surprises him, bringing up Grantaire's prison sentence like a weapon. Of the two of them, Enjolras is the only one who's ever been called _fierce_ ; Combeferre's temper has a slower burn.

Grantaire just nods. "I get it. But my friends have been keeping an eye on things while I've been...away. They know Monty's major players, and they've promised to tell me the instant anything changes."

"I still think he needs to know."

"What are you going to tell him? 'I kind of think maybe someone might want you dead'?"

"Don't act flippant about this," Combeferre says, pleading. "Don't you dare."

"I'm not, I promise. Look, at the risk of making things seem worse, he's in a position where threats are not unheard of. It's kind of a low-level awareness that yes, some people out there would like to have him out of the way--and he acts accordingly. Where did he sit at the restaurant tonight?"

"On one side of the booth..."

"Yeah. Alone, so he had freedom to move, and facing the door. I bet he does it all the time. And he never forgets to lock the door or set the security system, not even if you're both stumbling drunk or impossibly horny. Even when we get Monty--and we _will_ \--that won't change. There's always going to be that risk."

Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose. "I know," he says at last. "I'm sorry I snapped at you--that wasn't fair of me."

"You're worried; so am I. But between the two of us, we won't let anything happen to him."

"I hope you're right," he says doubtfully. He musters a smile. "Sorry. This was your night of triumph, and here I am bringing it all down."

"No worries. Now get back downstairs before your husband starts to think you've left him."

"As though I ever would. Have a good night," he says, reaching for the doorknob.

"You, too. And Combeferre?"

He turns.

"Thanks for the dance."

 

 

Combeferre gives him a smile, warmer and more convincing than the strained smiles he'd attempted during their conversation, and closes the door behind him.

Grantaire lets the smile drop from his own face and bows his head, taking deep, slow breaths. He waits for his equilibrium to return, for the moment when he remembers who he is and what he's doing and he can drop the fantasy of thinking that he can be _friends_ with Enjolras and Combeferre.

It hurts.

It's not the first time he's noticed it. Sometimes Enjolras looks at him a little too long, or says things in a tone of voice that makes him think--just _maybe_... He almost certainly doesn't realize he's doing it.

And Grantaire, god forgive him, has thought about it. About encouraging that faint tendency, seeing where it leads. After all, people split up all the time. A high-pressure job like Enjolras' is bound to strain a marriage, and people change. Nothing lasts forever.

He's not stupid enough to think that it would work, really, and not quite selfish enough to try. Just because he'd fallen ass over teakettle for Enjolras--while the man was _putting him in handcuffs_ , no less--doesn't mean he has any right to disturb his personal life.

And then he'd met Combeferre. Grantaire doesn't think it's possible to know Combeferre and wish him the slightest bit of ill. They were friends before they left the restaurant after lunch that first day. It just _happened_.

He thinks he might be a little in love with Combeferre, too.

Grantaire speaks six languages fluently and can dismantle a professional security system in under five minutes, but he's relatively certain that he's the stupidest person on earth. Because he'll keep coming back for more, _volunteering_ for the slow torture that is watching Enjolras and Combeferre in love. There's nothing he can do about it: They're absurdly, ridiculously, sickeningly happy, and the idea that anything might come between them--even Grantaire himself--is not to be borne.

He crosses the room and slides a bottle out of the wine-rack.

He has to live with Enjolras and Combeferre being perfect and in love; nobody says he has to do it sober.

 

 

By the time Combeferre opens the cab door, Enjolras has been considering Grantaire's last quip for more than five minutes. _I won't go in for a goodnight kiss_. He's been leaning back against the headrest with his eyes closed, not thinking about Grantaire kissing Combeferre. Or about Combeferre kissing him back, up against the wall of Grantaire's apartment. And he _specifically_ avoids thinking about how Combeferre would take Grantaire to sweet slow pieces in the big bed that sits in an alcove of Grantaire's apartment.

When Combeferre slides into the backseat beside him, accompanied by a rush of bitter cold, he leans forward and gives the driver their street.

Enjolras opens his eyes grudgingly and frowns at him. "You don't look like you've been kissing anyone," he says. He's relieved to see that, definitely relieved, and there's no knowing why his voice comes out disappointed.

Combeferre flashes him a bright, surprised look, and a trace of worry melts off his features like snow. "No? Did you _want_ me to kiss him?"

"I didn't say that."

The driver pulls away from the curb, and Enjolras uses the excuse of a jolt over a manhole cover to lean in closer to Combeferre.

"I think you _would_ like me to kiss him," Combeferre says lightly. "You could watch us, if you wanted." His hand slips beneath Enjolras' coat, warm against the small of his back.

A shiver works its way down Enjolras' spine. "We're in a _cab_ ," he mutters.

"So we are." Combeferre draws back slightly, and Enjolras immediately regrets reminding him of their surroundings.

They get out of the cab at the end of their block, rather than in front of the house. It's an ingrained kind of paranoia, but Enjolras isn't overly fond of strangers knowing exactly where they live.

Combeferre's hand finds his as they walk, and Enjolras picks up the pace. There's still a little soothing warmth left over from the alcohol, but it's well below freezing and he wants to be inside _now_. For several reasons.

The house is dim and silent and warm. Enjolras slides the bolt home, sets the alarm, and then pins Combeferre to the wall.

"Don't stop talking," he says. It's meant to be firm, but it comes out breathless and needy. He drops to his knees to hide the flush on his face.

Combeferre says, " _Oh_ ," very softly. His fingers sweep through Enjolras' hair and then fall away. "How do you think he kisses?" he asks, as Enjolras unbuckles his belt. "Do you think he's aggressive? Passive? Or do you think he could be either one, depending on the situation?"

Enjolras drags Combeferre's jeans and boxers down around his knees. He's already half-hard, and when Enjolras puts his mouth around the head he can feel Combeferre's cock swell on his tongue. Enjolras takes him as deep as he can, sucking gently.

Combeferre's voice shakes a little, but he keeps talking. "I imagine he's very good, don't you? How many languages does he speak, again? You need a clever tongue for that sort of thing."

Enjolras pulls back to twist his own tongue around the head of Combeferre's cock. When Combeferre speaks again, his voice is quick and sharp.

"And you would be right there, wouldn't you? Watching us. And he would know that. He'd want to put on a good show for you. That's all he wants, really, to impress you. You can see it. And oh, he'd be so impressive--" He breaks off entirely as Enjolras hollows his cheeks, sucking hard.

"Oh, _oh_ \--"

Enjolras loves this, loves the point where all of Combeferre's calm reserve fades and his words fail him completely. His hand drops to Enjolras' head, tugging his hair just a little, and the counterpoint makes Enjolras shift, pressing the heel of his hand against his own cock for a second's relief.

" _Enjolras_ ," Combeferre breathes, and then he's coming, his cock heavy on Enjolras' tongue. Enjolras swallows hard and doesn't let up until he feels Combeferre shiver; then he sits back on his heels and looks up, smugly satisfied with the wreck he's made of his husband.

Combeferre pulls ineffectively at his collar, tugging him up from the floor, and Enjolras climbs to his feet. Combeferre fumbles with Enjolras' belt, pushing the fabric of his pants down just far enough to wrap one warm hand around the length of his cock. Enjolras moans and leans against him. He's already hard, has been ever since he took Combeferre's cock in his mouth, and Combeferre knows exactly what he likes. His hand moves in quick, smooth strokes, dragging another desperate sound out of Enjolras.

Combeferre kisses him, disregarding the bitter taste, and Enjolras imagines what it would be like to kiss him after he's just finished kissing Grantaire, imagines Grantaire watching them--

He comes so suddenly that it leaves him shaking, clinging helplessly to Combeferre as he comes down. They're both breathing hard, slumped against the wall, and it's several minutes before they find the energy to drag themselves upstairs to bed.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Enjolras hopes that he can escape to work without having to talk about it. If they can just pretend that it never happened, that he didn't blow his husband in the hallway while fantasizing about his colleague, things will really be much better.

But Combeferre knows when he doesn't want to talk about something. It's practically a superpower. He leans in the dining-room doorway while Enjolras is pouring them each a thermos of coffee.

"So do you want to talk about..."

"Not really," Enjolras says. "Except to say that it was an error in judgment on my part, and it can't happen again."

"Because he's--?"

"For _so_ many reasons."

Combeferre nods. "Okay," he says, and that's the end of it.

That doesn't mean that Enjolras is looking forward to picking up Grantaire, even though he knows it's ridiculous. He's perfectly capable of acting like a professional, and not like someone who got off in the hallway last night thinking about Grantaire making out with his husband.

Grantaire is usually waiting on the front steps when Enjolras gets to Sister's house, lounging on the stone railing and sipping coffee like some sort of model. But he isn't there the morning after Sushi Night.

Enjolras waits for a few minutes, watching the dashboard clock tick forward, and then he turns off the car and goes inside.

The housekeeper tells him that Grantaire hasn't come down, so Enjolras climbs the stairs after him, forcing himself to take them one at a time and not to assume that something's wrong. If he'd run, the Marshals would have called, unless he'd found some way to disable the alarm this time...

He knocks on the door once, and then louder when Grantaire doesn't answer. He's about to go downstairs and ask Sister for the master key when he hears footsteps inside, and the door opens.

"Oh. It's you," Grantaire mutters, pushing the door wider to let him in. "Could you keep it down?"

All of Enjolras' anxieties are swept away and then immediately replaced with new concerns. "You look awful."

"As always, your charm and tact are a great comfort to me in my time of need." He's half-dressed, wearing pressed trousers and an undershirt, but the shadows under his eyes are dark, and he looks like the dim light of the room is blinding him. "Just give me a minute, I'll be ready to go."

"Were you _that_ bad, when we left you? I'm sorry, we should have made you drink a glass of water or something--"

"It's not your job to take _care_ of me, Enjolras," he snaps. "We're not friends."

"I see."

He winces. "I'm sorry, that isn't...I'm sorry. No, I wasn't that drunk when you left. That...happened later. Best not to ask."

Of course Enjolras wants nothing more than to ask. How had he gone from buzzed and smiling at the end of the evening to hungover and deeply miserable eight hours later?

There's an empty wine bottle in the sink that might have had something to do with it, but Enjolras clings to his willpower and doesn't ask. "Why don't you sleep it off, and I'll let Valjean know you're not feeling well and you'll be in tomorrow."

"Are you kidding? They're probably just looking for an excuse to send me back to prison."

"You're within your rights to take a sick day. That's not an excuse." _Not that they'd need one_ , Enjolras doesn't say. The Bureau can rescind Grantaire's deal at any time, and they both know it.

"It doesn't count when I did it to myself. I took a couple of aspirin--I'll be fine by the time we get to work."

Enjolras shakes his head. "Take a half-day, then. Or just a couple of hours. Go back to bed and let the aspirin do its work, then take a cab in to the Bureau."

Grantaire looks like he's about to argue, but then his shoulders drop and he drags a hand through his hair. "Yeah, okay. I'm sorry..."

"Don't be. I'll see you later, all right?"

Grantaire nods, and Enjolras pointedly pours him a glass of water before he leaves.

It feels strange to take the elevator up to his office by himself. Eponine raises an eyebrow, but Enjolras just shrugs. "He wasn't feeling well. He'll be here in a couple of hours."

She doesn't say anything, but her doubts are written all over her face. Half an hour later, Valjean comes in from the elevators and lays an evidence bag on Enjolras' desk. It's full of long, thin filaments that look like slices of camera film. "Well, Grantaire was right about there being something hidden in the lining. These were _woven_ into the interior fabric. Any idea what they are?"

Enjolras picks up the bag and turns it over in his hands. "Not really. But if they were going to the trouble of hiding these inside the lining, it has to be something important."

"I certainly hope so," Valjean says. "The assistant director has been asking about our plans for Grantaire."

Enjolras takes a deep breath. "What did you tell him?"

"That we had no immediate plans to alter the arrangement. But if the bags are a dead-end..."

"I understand."

"I've sent a handful of the filaments downstairs for processing--we'll figure out what Montparnasse is up to, I'm sure."

"Yes, sir."

Valjean leaves without making a comment on Grantaire's absence. Enjolras eyes the evidence bag for a few more minutes, without formulating any good ideas as to what the filaments might actually be. He tries not to think about what it would be like to climb the stairs to Grantaire's apartment only to put him in handcuffs--Grantaire's worst nightmare come true.

It wouldn't be the sweetest dream for Enjolras, either.

When Grantaire turns up around ten, the shadows under his eyes have lightened, and he's no longer moving like every quiet sound is a hammerblow inside his skull. He comes bearing a coffee for each of them, like a peace offering.

"Hey," Enjolras says. "How are you?"

He sits down at the desk. "Fine, now," he says, and then he frowns. "Where'd you get the security threads for the new Euro notes?"

"What?"

He picks up the evidence bag and shakes it.

"How do you--" Enjolras cuts himself off. "Never mind. I don't want to know. Come on, let's go tell Valjean."

Valjean is the one who asks the obvious question. "How is it that you recognize the new security threads, when you've been out of the loop for four years?"

Grantaire gives him an arch look. "I decline to answer that question on the grounds that I may incriminate myself."

"Forget I asked. I'll put in a few calls--I'm sure the EU would be interested to hear about this. Depending on how long Claquesous has been sending these bags along, there could be a thriving counterfeiting operation already."

"I doubt it," Grantaire says. "He's been sending the bags out since long before these filaments were developed. You could put anything small in the lining, and it wouldn't draw attention."

"Such as?"

"I wouldn't put drugs past him, sir," Grantaire says with visible distaste. "But documents would be my guess. One memory card tucked into the lining could hold half a library's worth of information."

Valjean sighs. "Well, that's a sobering thought. We'll have to see if Claquesous has anything to say on the matter. At any rate," he adds, with a glance at Enjolras, "this should be enough to quiet our friend in DC for a while."

Grantaire frowns at him when they leave Valjean's office. "What was that about? The friend in DC thing?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "Nothing important. Remind me to make sure Sister gets her check, though."

"Her check for what?"

And then Enjolras does let himself smile, just a bit. "Next month's rent."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
>   * O. Henry wrote a story about [mistaken identity during prisoner transport](http://www.online-literature.com/o_henry/1019/), and also one featuring a [safe-cracker](http://www.literaturecollection.com/a/o_henry/106/). 
>   * The line _Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels / and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells_ is from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot.
>   * Yes, you can use wet string to help you tear a page out of a book. Google it.
>   * I am not going to tell you the ending of _And Then There Were None_.
>   * _The Goldfinch_ is a Donna Tartt novel that features the theft of a painting.
>   * The C. S. Lewis quote that Enjolras deliberately mangles is "He's not a _tame_ lion," from _The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe_.
>   * The Morse Code signal for U Z A Q I D O (..- --.. .- --.- .. -.. ---) does contain the same pattern of dots and dashes as 2 3 C A 2 (..--- ...--- .-. .- ..---), but with different pauses.
>   * The lyrics to the Canadian National Anthem can be found [here](http://www.pch.gc.ca/eng/1359402373291/1359402467746). Don't be Enjolras.
> 



	3. February

 On Monday morning, Enjolras gets to the office so early that he doesn't even bother stopping at Sister's; he just texts Grantaire and tells him to find his own way in.

"Okay," Grantaire says, when he finally arrives. "It is eight o'clock in the morning. Why do you already look tired?"

"Because I've been here for two hours already."

"Since when do we work six to three? I think I would have remembered that memo."

"It's not six to three, it's six to five, at best. I hate Fashion Week."

"Why?"

Enjolras rolls his eyes and waves at the stack of reports next to him. "The second something goes up on the runway, someone somewhere is sewing a knock-off, and they all want the FBI to take care of it. We'll be chasing our tails all week."

"Only _you_ could face a week full of supermodels and be grumpy about it."

"I am not grumpy."

"Yes, you are. You look like that cat on the Internet."

Enjolras looks up. "Catching up on your memes, huh?"

"Trying to, yeah." He sits down in his chair. "So what's up?"

Enjolras flips open a folder. "I've got complaints from six different designers about knock-offs of designs that haven't even been shown yet. And the only one who lives in the _country_ won't come down for an interview. Her name's Elizabeth Moyenne, and she wants us to drive upstate to talk to her, because she is, quote, 'done with that foul city and its pathetic excuse for Fashion Week. Paris and Milan only, from now on.'"

"Well, she sounds charming."

"I know." Enjolras taps the folder. "How do you feel about a road trip?"

 

 

They're on the road before nine, but it's almost noon when they get to Miss Moyenne's house, a massive farm-house surrounded by acres of fields covered in patchy snow.

It's not even one when they leave again.

Grantaire drops down into the passenger seat. "Well, that was..."

"Spectacularly useless?" Enjolras supplies. He turns on the car and flips the heater on high. Flurries begin to melt on the windshield.

"I was going to say something more tactful, like 'interesting.'"

Enjolras snorts. "Well, I think we can cross her off the list of suspects--not even _you_ are a good enough actor to pull off that level of wounded pride."

Grantaire lifts a hand to his chest. "You always say the nicest things to me," he swoons.

Enjolras doesn't say anything. They'll have wasted six hours before this trip is over, and there's still work that needs to be done.

He decides to avoid the traffic on the main roads, out of a desperate hope that they can make good time getting back. Half an hour into the drive, he glances into the rearview mirror and sees a gray Camry behind them.

A chill works its way down Enjolras' spine, an almost subconscious hint of unease. The car, he realizes, has been behind them for a few miles now--but that's not to say it's been _following_ them. Plenty of people probably take this route into the city...through miles of sparsely populated farmland...in the middle of the afternoon. It probably happens all the time.

He forces himself to wait two miles before checking the rear-view again, and he relaxes. Behind them is a red 1960s Corvette, and behind that is a VW Beetle.

Behind the Beetle is the gray Camry. Enjolras can't come up with a single good reason why the Camry would have dropped back, unless they were worried about being spotted.

The Beetle and the Corvette turn off a few miles later, and then it's just them and the Camry again. Enjolras accelerates subtly, and the Camry matches him. He coasts for a while, and Grantaire gives him a funny look, but the Camry moves into the left lane to overtake them.

Except it doesn't pass them; it keeps pace. Enjolras looks over at Grantaire. "Are you wearing your seatbelt?"

"Yeah, why?"

"No reason." If he brakes hard, he might be able to swing them across the grassy median and into the unoccupied opposite lanes. There's a fair chance they could outrun them, at least long enough to call for backup.

"No, I'm pretty sure there has to be a reason. Nobody asks if you're wearing your seatbelt _in the middle of a drive_ unless--"

That's when the Camry veers over and smashes into the driver's side of the car. Enjolras swears and steadies the wheel as the safety glass of the window shatters. He slams on the gas, and they shoot forward, away from the Camry. "Call it in," he snaps, tossing his phone to Grantaire. "Tell them where we are, and that we need armed backup."

Before Grantaire can even swipe the screen, there's a tremendous noise and the car fishtails. The phone drops to the floor beneath Grantaire's feet.

"Back left tire," Enjolras says.

Grantaire leans forward to pick up the phone, and it's the only thing that saves him. A bullet punches through the frame of Enjolras' door and buries itself in the fabric of Grantaire's headrest.

Grantaire looks up, wide-eyed, and Enjolras risks moving one hand off the steering wheel to shove him down under the glove compartment.

" _Stay down_." They can't outrun the Camry with a blown tire, but remaining a moving target is their best hope at staying alive.

Grantaire obediently wedges himself down into the footwell of the car. Enjolras keeps his head low, expecting the next bullet to go through the back of his seat.

"We can't keep going for long, can we?" Grantaire asks.

"No."

A dim shape on the horizon resolves itself into a barn near the edge of the road. The bottom story looks like concrete, with wooden siding above. If they can get inside... "Hang on, we're going off-road," Enjolras says.

The car doesn't handle very well on three tires, but he still has enough control to swing the car off the road and through a field full of soybeans. He brings them to a sliding stop in front of the barn doors and checks to see how far behind them the Camry is.

Not far enough. "Out," Enjolras says, nudging Grantaire. He climbs out the passenger door, and Enjolras follows him--his own door is bent out of shape and stuck in its frame, not to mention being on the side facing the oncoming Camry.

The barn doors are padlocked, but Grantaire's already working at them with a thin piece of metal whose provenance Enjolras isn't going to question.

The Camry, briefly left behind, is now approaching the barn at extremely unsafe overland speeds. Enjolras wonders if they're just planning to crash into the car and crush the both of them between the frame and the barn door.

He lifts his gun and fires off a shot in the direction of the approaching Camry. It glances off a headlight, but it's enough to make them drive a little slower.

" _Ha_ ," Grantaire mutters, and the padlock clinks open. He pulls open one of the barn doors and ushers Enjolras in.

Just before the door closes, a couple of shots track towards them. Most of them go wide, but Grantaire yelps and jumps back.

Enjolras whips around to look at him, but he's still on his feet. "Are you hit?"

"I...I don't think so. Get away from the door."

Enjolras secures the door as best he can, threading the chain through the handles and moving the padlock to the inside. Between their car and the lock, it might be enough to slow down their pursuers. "Did you get through to anyone?"

Grantaire shrugs. "I'm not sure. I could hear someone at the dispatch office, but I'm not sure how well they could hear me. And if they have to triangulate on the cell signal, it'll put them a couple of miles behind us, where I made the call."

"Keep trying."

"There's no signal."

"Just keep trying." Enjolras looks around their cover, taking stock of what they have. There's a rusted wheelbarrow and several bales of straw, but nothing that even MacGyver could use to plan an escape.

"How long do you think it'll take them to get through?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "Five minutes? Ten, if the doors hold for a while. And they'll _have_ to come through the door, so at least we can be ready for them."

"They don't have to come through at all. They can just burn us out, if they want. The cinder blocks won't catch, but the smoke will either kill us or drive us right out to them."

Enjolras presses his lips together in a thin line. "Do you have anything positive to say?"

"They could also _not_ do that, and just let us freeze to death."

Enjolras doesn't bother to comment. It would take hours to freeze to death, though probably less than that before mild hypothermia sets in. He tips the wheelbarrow up against the door and piles the hay bales around it, more for the sense of accomplishment than for any real hope that it's going to help them.

"You think Montparnasse sent them?"

"No. I don't think it has anything to do with _you_ , you narcissist," Enjolras says mildly. "They were following us for miles before they made their move. Maybe since we left Miss Moyenne's house."

Grantaire blinks. "You think _she_ sent them after us?"

"If she didn't, then someone has her under surveillance. Either way, we'll have to send a team out to keep an eye on her," he says, like there's much hope that they'll be in a position to send anyone anywhere in a few minutes.

They both duck as a shot blows through the wood of the door, near the handles. So much for their impromptu barricade.

"Get back behind that beam," Enjolras says, taking up a position behind another beam to the left. The beam is only about eight inches wide, but it's better than nothing.

"What are _you_ going to do?"

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"It's not a stupid question, it's a _very relevant_ question."

"I have the gun, I can hold them off. If you get an opening, _run_ , okay?"

"But--"

"That's an order," Enjolras snaps, for all the good it will do. Grantaire's probably never obeyed an order in his life. "If you get out, would you--would you tell--?"

Grantaire's eyes widen, like he's finally understanding how dire their current straits are. He just nods.

Then the barn door splinters, letting in daylight, and Enjolras is trading bullets with their attackers through the doorway.

He aims low, not looking to kill anyone if he doesn't have to. There are two of them, but they only have a narrow space to pass through, and Enjolras has it covered--for now. He's silently counting down his bullets, ruing every shot he has to spend to keep their attackers on the far side of the doorway.

Single digits, now. If he holds off on the next shot, he might be able to lure them deeper into the doorway, and give himself a chance to shoot their way out...

A burst of gunfire breaks out beyond the door, sending Enjolras ducking back behind the beam. If the shooters have called for reinforcements, it's only a matter of time--there's no way he can hold them off with a single gun and approximately four bullets. He tries not to think about Combeferre, about Valjean knocking on the door and how he'll know, he'll _know_ \--

The gunfire stops.

"Agent Enjolras? Grantaire?"

He hesitates. "Yes?" he calls back, without leaving cover.

"This is Chief Fauchelevent from the Prentisstown Police Department. We received a call from the FBI office in the city that you were in danger."

A little of the tension seeps out of him. "Who sent you?"

"An Agent Eponine. She says, and I quote, 'This is what happens when you don't take backup.'"

Enjolras laughs. It's no secret code, but it's sufficiently _Eponine_ to tell him that the cops are on the level. He motions for Grantaire to stay in place while he steps out from behind cover. On the off- _off-_ chance that this is some kind of betrayal, Grantaire shouldn't have to pay for it, too.

But the four officers standing beyond the doorway don't open fire, so it must be their lucky day. "Thanks," he tells Chief Fauchelevent, holstering his gun. "I was running low."

The chief has a neatly-trimmed white beard and looks like he's about six weeks from retirement. "I can imagine. We can take you back to the station--sounds like your people are sending out a team to pick you up."

Enjolras motions for Grantaire to come out, and he surveys the scene in front of them. One of their attackers is on the ground, clearly dead, and the other is in handcuffs. Enjolras isn't sure if it was his shot or one of the officers' that took down the first one, but he's sure ballistics will find out. It'll all be in the report at the end.

They follow Chief Fauchelevent out to his patrol car.

"Are you going to make me sit in the back?" Grantaire says sadly.

"Yep."

He sighs.

"Hey, it has to be better than last time--no handcuffs."

The chief frowns and glances between them.

"He's a CI, assisting us on a case," Enjolras explains.

Chief Fauchelevent doesn't question it. Grantaire sits in the back without further complaint, and they ride back to the station together. It only takes fifteen minutes, but it's more than an hour before Valjean and Eponine pull up outside the station.

Eponine gives him a cool look when she walks in.

"I know, I know," Enjolras says, holding up his hands. "Next time I'll bring you along, and _you_ can get shot at, too."

"Damn right you will...boss," she adds, with a glance in Valjean's direction. If he notices he insubordination, he doesn't call her on it.

"How did you find us?" Enjolras asks. "Grantaire tried to call dispatch, but he wasn't getting through."

"The anklet alerted us--said it was a system failure. When we couldn't raise you on the phone, we figured something must have happened, so we pulled the last coordinates and asked the locals to send a team to you."

Enjolras turns to Grantaire, frowning. "What happened to the anklet?"

"Oh, yeah. It kind of..." He pulls up the leg of his trousers just a little.

There's a bullet wedged in the anklet's transmitter casing, and Enjolras' stomach drops.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. There's a welt, I think, but it didn't even draw blood."

"Do you have any idea how lucky you are? Half an inch over, and you could have lost your foot. You could have _bled to death_."

Grantaire's smile is a little shaky. "Don't remind me."

It takes an hour or so to get everything sorted out. The locals are more than happy to hand over control of the case to the FBI, and Valjean arranges to have them hold the surviving gunman until the Bureau can figure out what to do with him. They send a pair of local troops out to keep a watch on Miss Moyenne, in case she's targeted--or in case it turns out she's involved. After that, there's nothing left to do but go home.

There's a moment between the station and the car when they're out of everyone else's earshot, and Enjolras drops his voice low. "Why didn't you run?"

"Hm?"

"The anklet wasn't transmitting. You could have run."

"They were _shooting at us_."

"They were aiming for me," Enjolras clarifies.

"Yeah, well, they might have missed, and hit me instead. They didn't seem overly concerned about collateral damage."

"That's true."

"Anyway, where would I have gone? We were in the middle of nowhere. Get in a firefight near a loose sewer grate sometime, and we'll see what happens then."

Enjolras makes it a personal goal to never, ever get involved in a firefight near a sewer grate.

They ride back to the city in the back of Valjean's car, with Eponine in the front seat. Enjolras looks out the window and keeps his arms crossed to hide the betrayal of his shaking hands. By the time they get back to headquarters, the last of the adrenaline backlash has faded, and he can trust himself again.

"All right. I'll see you upstairs. Not you," Valjean says as Enjolras closes the car door.

"Sir?"

"You were involved in a shoot-out. A forty-eight-hour administrative leave is mandatory--you know that."

"Yes, sir," Enjolras says tightly. "What about Grantaire?"

"He didn't fire a weapon, so ordinarily he would keep working. However, I don't think that anyone else here is properly equipped to handle him, so he's off the hook, too. Forty-eight hours. Hand off your gun to ballistics, and report to psych before you go home."

Enjolras opens his mouth to protest.

"That's mandatory, too. Go. I'll see you on Thursday."

Valjean leaves them, heading upstairs in the elevator while Enjolras goes down to ballistics, in the basement. Grantaire goes with him, probably because no one has indicated that he should do otherwise. Once he's signed his gun over, they ride back up to the psych department.

Grantaire hesitates in the open hall in front of the office. "What do you want me to do?"

Enjolras sighs. "Just...wait here. With any luck, this won't take too long."

It really wouldn't be so bad, if Dr. Pontmercy didn't look like he was still in high school, all red hair and freckles and too-long limbs. And he's so damned _earnest_ , too. He means well, and objectively Enjolras knows that Pontmercy is very good at his job, but it doesn't exactly make him look forward to the next half-hour.

"Come on in," he says. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," Enjolras says shortly.

"Oh, well, then, be on your way."

Enjolras edges back towards the door. "Are you serious?"

"Of course not. Sit down."

He sighs and sits down in the chair across from Dr. Pontmercy. It's deceptively soft, and he sinks back into it ungracefully.

"Can you tell me what happened today?"

Enjolras suppresses a sigh and recounts the entire story for the third time. It's already starting to seem less real, like every retelling puts more distance between him and the event itself.

When he's done, Dr. Pontmercy nods. "What was your primary concern in the situation?"

"Grantaire," Enjolras replies, too quickly.

"Your criminal consultant?"

"He's essentially a civilian, so his safety was paramount. Beyond that, I was concerned with getting out of the situation alive."

"Not with bringing the perpetrators to justice?"

"That was a nice bonus," Enjolras says, deadpan. "But getting killed would have precluded any chance at apprehending the shooters, too." There was a time in his life, not very long ago, when he would have held his own safety a distant second to successfully completing the mission, but he can't afford to be that reckless anymore. He runs his thumb over the surface of his wedding ring and waits for Dr. Pontmercy's next question.

It goes on like that, and on and _on_ , while Pontmercy tries to get him to admit to feelings of guilt or remorse or uncertainty that just aren't _there_. Maybe that means there's something wrong with him. He doesn't enjoy shooting people, but he isn't going to pretend to be conflicted about possibly having killed someone who was trying to kill him.

It isn't Dr. Pontmercy's fault; he's just doing his job. But right now, forty-eight hours' uninterrupted leave sounds awfully nice to Enjolras.

Finally, Dr. Pontmercy tells him he can go. He'll write up a report and share it with Valjean, and hopefully they'll deem him fit to return to work after the mandatory leave is up.

Grantaire is still waiting in the hall, perched on an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair. "How did it go?"

"It went fine. Come on, I'll take you home."

"Uh, yeah. About that."

Enjolras turns to look at him.

"I didn't really want to bring this up, but I also didn't want you to think that I'm intentionally _not_ bringing I up, so...the anklet."

"Yes?"

"Well, it's broken. And unless you have another spare..."

Enjolras' stomach drops. They'd almost sent him home without a working anklet. Of all the irresponsible rookie mistakes--and of course they don't have a spare. This _is_ the spare, and they've been using it ever since Grantaire cut the original one in order to catch Claquesous. They can get another one from the Marshals, of course, but it'll take time. And he can't just send Grantaire back to Sister's with no security parameters at all--he'd never be able to resist the temptation.

Enjolras calls the elevator. "Come on. Let's go talk to Valjean."

They find him out on the main floor of the division, instead of up in his office. He's going over something with Eponine when he notices their arrival. His only reaction is a raised eyebrow.

"I thought I told you to go home."

"You did, sir," Enjolras says, "But Grantaire's anklet is broken, and we don't have a spare."

His eyes widen a fraction; he'd forgotten, like everyone else. "It's a good thing you remembered," he says.

"I didn't. Grantaire reminded me."

"Interesting. Let me make a call." Valjean picks up his phone and steps away to call the Marshals.

"You doing okay?" Eponine asks in a low voice. Enjolras isn't the only one who's ever gotten into a tight spot on a case.

"I'm fine. Or at least, I think I am. Pontmercy will have the final say, I guess."

"You always make that face when you talk about him. He's not so bad."

Enjolras smiles. "Don't let Cosette hear you talking like that."

" _Please_. She's not that insecure. She knows that Marius and I go back--"

Valjean comes back over to the desk. His expression doesn't give anything away.

"How long until the Marshals can send one over?" Enjolras asks.

"It'll be some time tomorrow--not before noon."

Twenty hours. What are they going to do with an un-traceable Grantaire for _twenty hours_?

"I suppose we can get one off the precincts to hold him overnight..."

Revulsion flickers over Grantaire's face before settling into resignation. "Sure. That's all right."

Enjolras frowns. "There's no alternative?"

"Well..." Eponine starts, and all three of them turn to look at her. "There's a short-range system in storage, I think. But it's not really the same."

"What does it entail?" Enjolras asks.

"It's sort of an electronic tethering system, but it's really limited--about fifty yards. It's supposed to be used for flight-risks while they're with a handler. The battery's designed to last about forty-eight hours, so that won't be a problem."

"How did you find out about that?" Valjean asks.

Eponine turns a little pink. "It was back when I started. You sent me down to look for a recording device, and I got lost in storage. I was too embarrassed to call you, or to ask someone for help, so I sort of browsed around until I found someone else, and then I tailed them back upstairs."

Valjean laughs. "Resourceful. Do you think you can find the tether system again without getting lost?"

"I'll leave a trail of breadcrumbs," she says.

She comes back ten minutes later with a surprisingly small plastic case. There's only a little dust on the top. She opens the latch and lifts the lid.

"Ah."

Nestled in the foam interior is a set of _two_ radio anklets. One for Grantaire, of course, and the other for his handler. Enjolras had thought there would be a central control system, but of course that wouldn't make sense--he could just pick up the system and walk off with it, with no one the wiser.

He's backed himself very neatly into a corner. It would be incredibly rude to back out now, even without considering what it would say to Grantaire--that he's not willing to subject himself to the same treatment, even for a night. And the fifty-yard range means they'll have to spend the night in relatively close proximity, either at Sister's or at Enjolras' own house.

"Okay," he says. "As long as I can have the key."

Valjean looks dubious. "He could steal it."

"And I could arrest him."

"How secure is your house?"

"There's an alarm system, and we have a guest room."

"And if he knifes you and takes the key?" Eponine asks, looking remarkably unconcerned about the prospect.

"He's never shown the slightest propensity for violence," Enjolras counters.

Grantaire makes a face. "I'm standing _right here_."

No one responds.

"All right," Valjean says at last. He turns to Grantaire. "You understand what's at stake if you misbehave."

"Yes, sir."

"Then I trust we won't have any trouble."

"No, sir."

Enjolras removes Grantaire's damaged anklet and replaces it with the short-range version. Then he fastens his own. They're not quite the latest design, so it's a little bulky and awkward. Still, it's only for the night.

Eponine snaps the case closed, and Valjean looks at Enjolras. "We'll call you as soon as the Marshals can send us a replacement. You can bring him in, but if I catch you sneaking over to your desk to do paperwork..."

Enjolras nods. "Understood."

"Now go, both of you. You'll need to take something from the garage, I suppose, since your usual car is out of commission."

If by _out of commission_ one means _totaled in a farmyard upstate_ , Enjolras supposes that's accurate enough. He picks up a set of keys and leads Grantaire back to the parking garage for what he dearly hopes will be the last time today.

Grantaire's quiet until they get into the car.  "I can't remember the last time I had a slumber party," he says gleefully.

Enjolras closes his eyes and prays to an unspecified deity for patience. They stop at Sister's to let Grantaire pack a few things, and then Enjolras drives them to his house.

It isn't as though Grantaire doesn't know where they live--he's been there before, after all--but voluntarily leading him there is still counterintuitive at best. Enjolras finds the nearest parking space and turns off the ignition.

"Do you mind waiting in the car for a minute? I need to talk to Combeferre alone first."

"Sure. I'll just be sitting here, _not_ hotwiring your car and driving off," Grantaire says lightly.

Enjolras really hopes the car will still be here when he comes outside again. He unlocks the front door and slips inside, and Combeferre calls out from the kitchen. "In here!"

He crosses the living room and leans in the kitchen doorway. "Hi."

Combeferre looks up at him. Something must give him away, because Combeferre immediately shifts into emergency mode. He abandons a pot of what smells like spaghetti sauce and crosses the room. "What happened?"

"Nothing. It's okay now, I mean, but...there was an incident today. Somebody ran the car off the road and shot at us."

"But you're okay," Combeferre says. He doesn't quite make it a question, but Enjolras nods.

"I'm fine."

"You said _we_. Was Grantaire with you? Is _he_ all right?"

"He's fine, too. We weren't hurt. I'm just...tired. They made me sit down with the psychologist, after."

Combeferre smiles sympathetically. It's possible that Enjolras has complained about Pontmercy before.

"There's something else."

Combeferre's brow wrinkles, ever so slightly, and Enjolras has a brief and irrelevant pang of jealousy that his husband is going to be _incredibly_ attractive as he ages. "What is it?"

"Grantaire's anklet was damaged, and the Marshals can't get us another one before tomorrow. The first suggestion was to put him in a holding cell overnight--"

"What? No, he'll _hate_ that..."

"I know. So Eponine found a pair of short-range transmitters that will keep him from taking off."

"Short range? How short?"

Enjolras tugs up the leg of his trousers to show Combeferre the anklet. "About fifty yards," he says.

Combeferre grins. "So he's staying over?"

"Oh my god, you two are like children. Yes, he's staying--if that's all right with you, of course, though it doesn't seem like I even have to ask."

"Of course it's fine. Listen, dinner's almost ready, if you want to go upstairs and air out the guest room. Wait, fifty yards--so is he here?" Combeferre glances through the doorway to the living room.

"He's outside."

"You left him in the _car_?"

"He said he wouldn't hotwire it."

" _Enjolras_. Bring him inside already. It's freezing out there."

Enjolras goes back out to the car, which is thankfully still where it belongs, and waves Grantaire inside. He comes up the walk with a bounce in his step, and Enjolras really hopes that he hasn't made a terrible mistake.

"We're having spaghetti," Combeferre calls from the kitchen. "Enje, would you mind taking Grantaire's stuff upstairs?"

Enjolras gives him a slow look, but Combeferre is smiling, just a little, and he doesn't complain about it. It wouldn't be polite, in front of a guest.

Dinner is almost shockingly domestic. Combeferre is a fantastic cook, and Grantaire inexplicably volunteers to wash the dishes afterward. Granted, it's mostly just rinsing things and putting them in the dishwasher, but it's the thought that's meaningful.

When they're done, Grantaire hangs the dishtowel back on the hook and claps his hands together. "Okay, what should we do now? I mean, we could talk about the boys that we like, but that might get kind of awkward because we'd both wind up talking about Combeferre."

Combeferre looks away, torn between laughter and embarrassment, and Enjolras takes the opportunity to glare at Grantaire. "If you could not hit on my husband while I'm around, that would be great."

Grantaire nods. "From now on I'll only hit on him when you're somewhere else. But you just shot down my favorite slumber-party game. Now we're down to nail-painting and hair-braiding, and I'm willing to bet neither one of you can manage a decent French braid."

"It gets worse," Combeferre says. "The only nail polish in this house is an ancient bottle of glittery black from Enjolras' goth phase in college."

Grantaire's eyes widen with delight. "Pictures. I need _pictures_."

"It wasn't a goth phase," Enjolras protests. "It was for Rocky Horror, the year that Jehan played Dr. Frankenfurter and we all dressed up for support."

"Okay, so it was a very _brief_ goth phase," Combeferre allows.

"But you _do_ have pictures, right?"

"I'll find one and send it to you," he promises, and Enjolras almost wishes he'd just told Valjean to tuck Grantaire away in a cell overnight.

In the end, they decide to watch Netflix instead. Grantaire, when asked, tentatively suggests _Elementary_ , and five minutes later he and Combeferre are embroiled in a discussion about the show's merits versus _Sherlock_. Enjolras doesn't even realize it when the conversation starts to dim around him and he dozes off.

He jolts awake just as the gray Camry is about to smash into their car again. It's not something he can play off or hope that no one noticed. Combeferre's hand finds his. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just..." He shakes his head. "Bad dream."

 "Do you want to go to bed?"

Enjolras glances over at Grantaire. He's not going to bed before Grantaire does; it sort of defeats the purpose of guarding him.

"That sounds like a good idea, actually," Grantaire says. "I don't know why I'm so tired."

"You were in a shoot-out today. It's to be expected," Combeferre replies. "Come on." All three of them troop up the stairs, and Combeferre pushes open the door to the guest room. It isn't anything special, just a queen bed and a nightstand, but it's nice enough.

"Will this work?" Combeferre asks.

"There's no balcony, so I'm sure it's not up to your exacting standards," Enjolras adds dryly.

Grantaire smiles. "There are no bars on the window, so it's already far exceeded my standards."

To add insult to injury, Fitz walks out of Enjolras and Combeferre's bedroom and jumps up onto the guest bed.

"Oh, Fitz--don't," Combeferre says, making a start for the bed, but Grantaire smiles and scratches her under the chin.

"She's fine. I don't mind the company."

"Okay...but if she bothers you, you can put her out in the hall. Don't let her whining get to you, either. She's a master manipulator."

Grantaire just laughs. "Yeah, we'll get along just fine."

"If there's anything you need, just help yourself," Combeferre says.

"To food. Or drink," Enjolras clarifies. "We'd like to keep the silverware, please."

Grantaire grins. "Whatever you say."

Enjolras goes downstairs to check the alarm, giving Grantaire a chance to get settled in the guest-room. When he gets back upstairs, Combeferre is standing by the guest-room door, getting ready to knock.

"Are you going to read him a bedtime story?" Enjolras asks quietly.

"He should be so lucky. My storytimes are _epic_. But I just wanted to make sure he's okay."

"I know." Enjolras kisses Combeferre and then slips into the bathroom to take a quick shower. A few shards of safety glass patter to the floor when he takes off his jacket; he carefully sweeps them up and throws them away.

The hot water does a little bit to ease the lingering tension in his muscles, but by the time he turns the water off he's almost asleep on his feet.

When he steps out of the shower, he finds Combeferre waiting just inside the bathroom door with a towel. He wraps it around Enjolras, and they both hold on a little longer than necessary, even when Enjolras' wet hair starts to drip down the side of Combeferre's neck. He's not sure which of them needs the contact more.

He crosses the hall with the towel tucked around his waist--Grantaire's door is closed, anyway, there's nothing to worry about. He doesn't bother to get dressed; once their own door is closed, he just drops into bed and watches Combeferre undress with sleepy appreciation.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay up for a while?" Enjolras asks. "The light won't bother me." Combeferre is a natural night owl--given a day off with no plans, he'll stay up until four and sleep until noon. He doesn't go to bed at ten o'clock unless forced.

Combeferre shakes his head. As soon as the lights are out, he curls himself around Enjolras, one arm wrapped protectively around his waist. He presses a kiss to the back of Enjolras' neck, and they both pretend to try to sleep for a few minutes.

"I hate your job sometimes," Combeferre says quietly.

"I know you do."

"I know it's important. I know that you do amazing things, _crucial_ things, but I hate that it has to be you."

"It has to be someone."

"Yes, but I've got this weird selfish thing about my husband getting shot at."

"Understandable." Enjolras lets one hand fall to rest on Combeferre's arm where it's wrapped around his waist. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just...be careful." Combeferre's voice softens, and in a matter of minutes he's asleep.

Enjolras tries; he really does. But every time he manages to fall asleep it's only to wake up again, ten or twenty or forty minutes later, heart pounding as he braces for the crash.

Around two, he gives in, puts on a pair of sweatpants, and goes downstairs to try to sleep. Combeferre actually has to work in the morning, and Enjolras doesn't want to disturb him over the course of what's apparently going to be a very interrupted night.

He shouldn't even be surprised when he hears footsteps on the stairs just after three. He sits up and switches on the lamp to see Grantaire standing on the bottom step in navy-blue boxers and a white t-shirt. Fitz is yawning at his feet.

"You're sleeping on the couch? How did you manage to piss Combeferre off _that_ badly in the last four hours? --Or is this about keeping me from escaping?"

"Neither, really. I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to wake him by tossing and turning all night."

"Oh."

"Did you need something?"

"Nah. I couldn't sleep either," he admits.

Enjolras pushes the blanket aside. "Tea?"

"Why not?"

Enjolras brews a cup of tea for each of them--chamomile, because he can use all the help he can get, if he wants to get any sleep tonight.

"Why did you come down? You weren't trying to leave, were you?"

"In _boxers_? Thank you, no. I plan my escapes a little better than that."

Enjolras has several cutting remarks on the subject of _planning escapes_ and also on _holing up in your last known hide-out_ , but he keeps them to himself.

Grantaire takes a quiet slurp of tea. "Anyway, if I wanted to get out, I'd have gone through the attic."

"The _attic_?"

"Yeah. I know you said everything is alarmed, but not the drop-down attic ladder, right? There's a little ventilation grating under the eaves; I saw it on the way in. From there, it's just a matter of how strong your drainpipe is."

Enjolras is disturbed by the fact that Grantaire created a whole plan just as a thought exercise. "You could have done all that...but you didn't."

"Nah. Too tired."

"Of course."

"And it would be pretty rude, right? Leaving without thanking my hosts for a wonderful evening."

Enjolras snorts.

"No, I mean that. Thank you for doing this. I would have been okay in a cell overnight, but this is...it's more than you had to do, and I appreciate it."

"Are you kidding? Combeferre would have killed me if he found out I'd let you spend the night in a cell."

"Whatever the reason--thanks," Grantaire says, and then he yawns.

Enjolras plucks the empty cup of tea from Grantaire's hands and sets it in the sink. "Go back to bed," he says. "Unless there was something else you wanted?"

Grantaire opens his mouth to say something. Then he closes it again, and shakes his head. "No. Thank you."

"Good night," Enjolras says, and Grantaire smiles.

"Good night."

Grantaire goes upstairs. Enjolras finishes his tea and lies down on the couch for a little while longer. When he finally feels like real sleep might not be an impossibility, not long before dawn, he climbs the stairs and curls up next to Combeferre again.

This time, he doesn't dream.

 

* *  

 

It's sweet, the way that Combeferre tries not to wake Enjolras, despite the fact that he'd normally be on his way to pick up Grantaire by now. Enjolras keeps his eyes closed and pretends to be asleep, until a wet towel lands across his face.

"Do they _really_ put you undercover, with acting skills like those? You've been awake for fifteen minutes."

"Ten," Enjolras lies, sitting up and flinging the towel back at him. Combeferre catches it and hangs it over the doorknob.

"Is Grantaire up yet?"

Combeferre shakes his head. "His door's still closed, and he hasn't come downstairs. Either he's still asleep or he climbed out the window."

"Attic," Enjolras corrects, thinking of their conversation last night. "He said he'd go out the attic, if he wanted to."

"Smart." Combeferre sits on the edge of the bed to tie his shoes, which makes it easy for him to lean over and kiss Enjolras good-bye. "I'll see you later," he says. "Try not to strangle Grantaire before the Marshals call, okay?"

"No promises," Enjolras grumbles, but he kisses Combeferre again before dropping down onto the bed and attempting to go back to sleep.

It lasts for about five minutes after he hears the front door close. Then he gives up and gets dressed. He's already reaching for his work clothes before he remembers that he's off for two days. He puts on jeans and a red flannel shirt left over from college, the one with the singed sleeve. It feels weird to be at home on a weekday, like he's playing an involuntary game of hooky.

He goes downstairs to make breakfast, and he hears the shower squeak to life a few minutes later.

When Grantaire comes downstairs, he stops in the kitchen doorway to stare at Enjolras.

"What?"

"I didn't know it was casual day at la maison d'Enjolras," he says. "I've never seen you in jeans before. And _flannel_ \--I like it. Very grunge."

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "I don't _live_ in suits and ties, you know." Grantaire's wearing jeans, too, with a button-down and a blazer, which makes him look like a college professor--the one whose lecture classes always fill up first and whose office hours are a parade of infatuated students with thin pretexts for visiting.

"There's toast if you want some," Enjolras adds. "And coffee."

Grantaire's eyes light up, and he falls on the toast and coffee like he hasn't eaten in a week, which Enjolras knows isn't the case--Sister's cook is, apparently, incredible, as Grantaire has told him repeatedly.

"By the way," Grantaire says, pushing a last crust of toast around on his plate. "I had an idea about the knock-offs."

"Great. We can talk about it on Thursday."

"But Fashion Week will be halfway _over_ by then. We might not have enough time."

Enjolras narrows his eyes. Grantaire is making a logical and well-considered argument, and that can't possibly mean anything good. "What's this idea of yours, then?"

"Don't get mad at me?" he asks.

"Tell me what you did, and I'll decide."

"Okay. Wait here." Grantaire runs upstairs and comes back down with a blue folder in his hands.

Enjolras almost chokes on his coffee. " _Grantaire_. That file is property of the FBI. You can't just take things out of the office like that, it's against like seventeen security protocols--"

"I think I found a connection between all of the designers who registered complaints," Grantaire says, cutting Enjolras off.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah." He flips open the folder and pulls out a stack of schedules, accompanied by a page of notes in Grantaire's meticulous handwriting. "It's hard to tell, because the photographer has worked for a couple of different agencies, but every designer has had their work featured in a photo spread shot by J. Babet."

"Should I know who that is?"

"Probably not. I'd never heard of him until now. _But_ I did a little bit of research--by the way, you really shouldn't use your anniversary as your laptop password--"

"I _didn't_."

"No, you used the date you caught me--which is a different kind of anniversary, and very sweet of you," Grantaire adds. "Anyway, he's got a photo-shoot in town. _Today_."

"Great. Call Valjean and let him know."

"I can't. He'll know I swiped the file and he'll probably send me back to prison."

"What do you suggest we do, then?"

"I think we should crash the photoshoot ourselves."

"Absolutely not."

Grantaire throws his hands up. "Why not? It's perfect. We'll invent some kind of cover story and go in to observe, see what we can see. No one will ever have to know."

"All of which is going to blow up in our faces if we need backup."

"We're not going to need backup. You can't hide a gun in a couture gown."

"I'm going to refer you to Eponine when we get back to the office," Enjolras promises. The amount of weaponry she can conceal beneath a minidress probably violates several laws of physics.

"So...can we go?"

Enjolras closes his eyes. This is the worst idea he's ever heard, but it might also be their only chance to follow this lead. And he has to stick close to Grantaire, or the anklet will sound an alarm. "Okay. We're not going to engage with anyone. We're not even going to _speak_ to anyone. And if I hear even the slightest _hint_ of trouble starting, I'm calling in the cavalry and you can pay the consequences for swiping the file. Understood?"

"Perfectly. Let's go."

Grantaire copies down the address, and they take a cab instead of driving. Enjolras doesn't exactly feel like getting back behind the wheel just yet, considering what happened the last time, and even if he trusted Grantaire to drive a car belonging to the Bureau, his license had expired while he was still in prison.

The shoot is taking place on the top floor of an apartment building, in a suite rented out for the occasion. The elevator is old, and it seems to take ages to get to the top.

"Hey, are you carrying?" Grantaire asks, studying their warped reflections in the wavy brass of the door.

"I'm on _leave_."

"Is that a no?"

"Yes."

"It's a yes?"

"This is not an Abbott and Costello routine," Enjolras hisses. "No, I am not carrying." His gun is back at the Bureau, probably being run through ballistics as they speak.

"Damn. I was going to suggest that we go in as a designer and his bodyguard, but it's pointless unless someone has a gun."

"I thought we weren't going to talk to anybody."

"Right, because _that_ wouldn't be suspicious." Grantaire turns to look at him, frowning. "Although, considering your ridiculous bone structure... Unbutton your shirt like halfway."

"Excuse me?"

Grantaire grins and reaches up to tousle Enjolras' hair. "We're about to make you a star, kid."

The elevator doors open, and Grantaire's already three steps down the hall by the time Enjolras registers the words. He catches up to Grantaire and hauls him back. "No. No no no no no. Grantaire, whatever it is you're planning to do--"

"Look, do you want to catch these guys or not?"

"Of course I do. But I don't have any idea how to act like a model."

"Just find the light and try not to let your eyes do the squinchy thing they do when you're pissed at me."

"What squinchy thing?"

"That one. The one you're doing right now. Stop it."

"I'm obliged to inform you that _squinchy_ is not a word," Enjolras says, but he tries to stop doing the thing with his eyes anyway.

"Better. Now look bored and a little vapid."

"That's stereotypical," he objects.

"Yeah, and we're going to use that to our advantage. Play on what people expect from you--they'll underestimate you nine times out of ten. Now: bored and vapid, go."

Enjolras tries; he really does.

Grantaire sighs. "Close enough. Now follow me." Grantaire leads the way down the corridor, where they can hear voices. They turn the corner to find the photo shoot already in full swing, and Enjolras finally has a chance to watch Grantaire at work. His whole posture changes, and he strides right into the middle of the room, making sure to pass between the light and the model, so his shadow falls into the shot. "Can we hurry this up? You were supposed to be shooting him like an hour ago."

The photographer frowns. "Who are you?"

Grantaire gives him a look of furious contempt. "It doesn't matter who the fuck _I_ am. What matters is you've got fucking _Apollo Grey_ in your studio right now and you're keeping him waiting."

Enjolras blinks, thinking, _Who the hell is Apollo Grey?_ before he realizes that Grantaire's pointing at him. He does his best to look bored and vapid, and Grantaire doesn't try to burn a hole through him with his eyes, so it must be working.

The photographer and the director of the shoot exchange glances. The model on the sofa just leans back, waiting. "We don't have him on the schedule," the director says.

Grantaire shrugs. "That's not my problem. We called your guys six fucking months ago to set this up, so either you _put_ him on the schedule or I go out in the hall and call _Vogue Hommes_ back. Makes no difference to me."

The director's eyes widen. "No, no. Don't go anywhere. We can, ah, fit him in."

"That's what I thought," Grantaire says smugly, and then he steps away to have a word with the lighting guy.

Enjolras pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts Combeferre, keeping a consciously bored expression as he does so. _Lunch with Grantaire. Be home a bit late_ , he sends. It's not entirely inaccurate, since they'll probably stop for lunch on the way back. Besides, saying _Grantaire just apparently kick-started my modeling career_ would make Combeferre laugh until he cried.

Grantaire ambles back over to him, looking entirely too proud of himself. "So, are you ready?"

"Of course not."

"Look, it's easy. The director will tell you what to do. All you have to do is drape yourself over the furniture and think about Combeferre."

"Excuse me?"

"Or you can think about how angry I make you when I drag you into an undercover operation without fair warning."

"I thought you said _not_ to do the squinchy thing."

"Don't. But the avenging-angel look is a good one on you. Now go--they're ready for you in the dressing room."

With a last glare in Grantaire's direction, Enjolras walks off to the dressing room following one of the assistants.

That's where he encounters the first problem: the anklet. He has to get it off somehow, without anyone noticing. There's no question of wearing it during the photo-shoot--it's not noticeable under a pair of jeans, but he has no idea what kind of outfits they're planning to put him in.

"Do you mind?" he asks, making his voice as cold and arrogant as he can. The assistant steps outside hurriedly, and Enjolras glances around the room for a likely place. He unlocks the anklet and snaps it closed around a heavy table leg before it registers an alarm. As long as Grantaire doesn't get more than fifty yards from this room, they'll be fine. When he undresses, he flings his clothes haphazardly over the table to hide it, and puts on the supremely weird tuxedo they left out for him.

Then he's sent to the makeup chair, where he endures approximately a thousand years of sponges and makeup brushes and trying not to flinch away when the makeup artist approaches with an eyeliner pencil. He tries very hard not to think about what Grantaire's doing out in the main room while Enjolras' back is turned.

The makeup artist tries valiantly to make conversation. "Apollo Grey, huh?" she asks brightly. "As in _Fifty Shades of_?"

Enjolras makes a face and nearly gets a mascara brush in the eye for his trouble.

She laughs. "Yeah, okay, my bad. You probably get that question a lot, huh?"

"More than I'd like," Enjolras says. The worst part is that Grantaire probably just plucked the name out of nowhere, unless he's been working his way through the box of books that Combeferre left him.

"Okay," the artist says, standing back. "You're good to go."

The lights in the main room are hot enough to burn, and the poses they force on him are absurd. It's difficult not to roll his eyes or protest or ask how this could _possibly_ lead to a good picture, but one time he tips his head back to 'find the light' or whatever Grantaire told him to do, and the lighting guy mutters _holy shit_ with a strange kind of reverence. Maybe it's working after all.

He's pretty sure it's been hours by the time they send him back to the dressing room--and it's only to change into _another_ bizarre outfit. And then another. And another. Grantaire had better have this case solved by the time they leave the building.

Finally, _finally_ he's finished, and they send him back to the dressing room alone. His clothes are exactly where he left them, and it's a matter of a few seconds to fasten the anklet back around his leg. He's never in his life been so relieved to put on a worn-in pair of jeans. He rejoins Grantaire, and they take the elevator downstairs in silence.

"Tell me there was a point to this," Enjolras says.

"Sure. I definitely ruled out wardrobe and makeup, although they work for the designer, not the photographer, so they weren't really suspects anyway. The director didn't strike me as a likely candidate, and the lighting crew was barely paying attention. It's got to be the photographer."

"J. Babet," Enjolras says. "Well, it wouldn't be difficult for him to get his hands on the designs. He shoots the clothes from every angle, and then all he'd have to do would be to copy the data off the memory card and pass it along to someone who can create a pattern."

"Exactly."

"First thing Thursday morning, we'll bring him in, and see if we can't get him to see the benefits of cooperating with the FBI."

"What are you going to tell Valjean?"

"As little as possible," Enjolras says grimly. "Anonymous tip, maybe?"

They step outside into the cold. "Well, it was a productive morning, at least," Grantaire says. "We've got a solid suspect now."

"Yes."

"Plus, I got the lighting guy's number."

Enjolras rounds on him. "Seriously? He's a potential _person of interest_ in our case!"

"In _your_ case," Grantaire corrects smugly. "And I've got tomorrow off, too."

"What happened to Le Cabuc?"

Grantaire waves a hand. "That was nice, but neither one of us was looking for a long-term thing, considering I thought I was about to be sent back to prison. Don't worry, I'm not out to break anybody's heart."

"I wasn't worried." He checks his phone and finds a message from Eponine, with a timestamp of twenty minutes ago. He calls his voicemail to listen.

_Hey, the Marshals have sent over the anklet, so you can bring him in any time if you want to get him out of your hair. If he's gotten away or murdered you in your sleep, then this is a message to say I told you so. Bye!_

Enjolras deletes the message and slips the phone back into his pocket. "That was Eponine. They've got a replacement for the anklet, so we can drop by the Bureau and get it put on. Then you can go home."

"You mean I can get out of your hair," Grantaire translates, in an eerie echo of Eponine's message. "Which, by the way, is looking fantastic in a just-fucked sort of way."

Enjolras makes a face and tries to comb it back into place with his fingers. He doesn't think it's doing any good. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with."

"Yeah, okay. But, um...you might want to wash your face, first."

After scrubbing his face half a dozen times in the station bathroom, Enjolras feels an immense amount of respect for anyone who wears makeup on a day-to-day basis. He examines his reflection and decides that he can probably show his face in the Bureau without embarrassing himself too badly.

It's strange, going into the Bureau through the front door rather than the garage. Even stranger is the sight of Valjean, half-hidden in an alcove near the door and holding a fresh cigarette down by his side. He catches sight of Enjolras and Grantaire and flushes, like he's embarrassed to have been caught. "Do me a favor and don't tell my daughter, would you?"

"No, sir," Enjolras replies.

"I don't suppose either of you..." He holds out the pack.

Enjolras shakes his head, but Grantaire grins and plucks a cigarette from the pack. "Thanks," he says brightly, and he tucks it behind his ear.

"You're welcome. Go on up--Eponine can get the anklet for you. You're not to even _look_ at your desk," Valjean adds to Enjolras. "You're on leave, remember."

"Yes, sir," Enjolras says, hoping that the guilt doesn't show on his face.

They step into an elevator for the twelfth floor. "You smoke?" Enjolras asks, glancing over at Grantaire.

"No. It's just--all that shit about cigarettes being currency in prison, there's some truth to it. So if someone offers, it's like reflex to take one. Just in case."

"Right." They step out of the elevator and into the White Collar department. Eponine gives them both a wry look as they approach her desk. "Somebody's breaking dress code," she says.

"Somebody's also off the clock today," Enjolras counters. "We're just here to get the anklet, and then you won't see me until Thursday, I promise."

"Great. I've got it right here," she says, opening a desk drawer.

Enjolras unlocks his own anklet and then Grantaire's, and he fastens the new one on.

"I'm also supposed to tell you that the US government isn't made of money and that it would be very nice if you could keep this one in one piece," Eponine says.

"Hey, it's not like I break them on _purpose_ ," Grantaire protests. "Okay, I mean, the first one I broke on purpose, but the second one wasn't my fault."

"Uh-huh," Eponine says.

"By the way," Enjolras says casually. "You should check out J. Babet, if you get a chance. It looks like he's done photoshoots for every designer that's registered a complaint. And he happens to be in the city right now."

"Oh? And how did you find that out?"

"Anonymous tip," Enjolras says, keeping his face carefully blank. "Just thought you ought to know."

"I'll look into it."

"And if you could _not_ mention I told you..."

"What did you do?" she asks, frowning.

"Nothing at all." He nudges Grantaire towards the door. "Let's go."

Grantaire sighs at Eponine. "Duty calls," he says.

"I'm sure it does. Nice blazer, by the way," she adds.

Grantaire beams at her, and Enjolras discreetly steps on his foot.

" _Ow_ ," he says, as soon they're in the elevator. "What the hell was that for?"

"No reason."

"What, are you jealous or something? We're not all married to sexy librarians, you know. Let me play the field a little."

"Play the field? Eponine isn't even playing the same _sport_."

"She said she liked my blazer."

"Uh-huh. And what about your lighting guy?"

"I can't have both?"

Enjolras blinks, and Grantaire throws his head back and laughs.

"Are you serious? You're telling me that _nowhere_ in my giant FBI file does it say _bisexual serial monogamist_? Because that is some seriously shoddy detective work, Agent Enjolras."

"Regardless," Enjolras says, making a mental note to edit Grantaire's file on Thursday, "let me explain something to you. Valjean is the head of my department. Unlike most of the Bureau, he's a pretty firm believer in second chances, which is why he lobbied for your release in the first place. His daughter Cosette is a staffer for a certain politician in DC--and she happens to be in a long-distance relationship. _With Eponine_."

"Ah. Different sports. I get it."

He drops Grantaire off at Sister's place and calls it in, so that the Marshals know to turn on the anklet now. He gets home just after Combeferre does.

Fitz jumps all over both of them, and by the time Enjolras gets her to sit, he realizes that Combeferre is giving him an odd look, studying him with his head tipped slightly to one side. "Okay, while I am a _little_ curious as to how the eyeliner happened, I'm not inclined to complain about the situation."

Enjolras swears viciously and rubs his eyes. "I thought I got it all."

"Lunch with Grantaire, huh?"

"It would have taken too much time to explain."

"So explain now," Combeferre says, tugging him towards the sofa. "I have a feeling this one's going to be good."

Enjolras drops onto the sofa. "He came down for breakfast this morning, all excited because he'd had an idea about the case we'd been working on yesterday--designer knock-offs. They'd all been shot for different magazines, at different times, by the same photographer. So we found his itinerary online and dropped by the studio where he was working--which is when Grantaire revealed the _brilliant_ plan of passing me off as a model while he dug around the studio."

"Did it work?"

"We kept our cover," Enjolras says. "But I don't think modeling is going to be a viable career option if this FBI thing doesn't pan out."

"When can I look forward to seeing this in print?"

"The twelfth of never. The Bureau's going to confiscate the data card."

"Ah." Combeferre frowns. "Do you think Grantaire would be willing to get me a copy?"

 

 

With Grantaire out of the house, the rest of Enjolras' leave passes quickly, if not very productively. He gets a little more work done on the kitchen, washes a few loads of laundry, and goes for a run. He's actually kind of relieved when Thursday rolls around.

"Any progress?" he asks Eponine, when he gets to work with Grantaire.

"Progress? Try case closed," she replies, a little smugly. "J. Babet was _very_ interested in cooperating with the FBI, and once he started talking he couldn't say enough. Turns out your fashion designer upstate was masterminding the whole thing--she must have figured she could avoid suspicion if she herself was one of the wronged parties. And it probably would have worked, after the Oscar-caliber interview she gave, except she panicked and had a couple of her associates try to run you down after your visit."

"Because it wouldn't have been suspicious at _all_ for an FBI agent and a consultant to disappear off the map in the middle of the highway in broad daylight."

She shrugs. "Hey, people come up with shitty plans when they panic. Anyway, that's what happened at our end. How was your time off?"

Enjolras carefully avoids looking at Grantaire. "Uneventful," he says. "Completely and totally uneventful."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * As far as I know, there is no Prentisstown Police Department. There isn't even a Prentisstown in New York.
> 



	4. March

 Grantaire isn't as alarmed as he should be when he comes home to Sister's one night and finds his door unlocked. He steps inside, tosses his coat over the back of a chair, and turns on the light.

"You know, you could _knock_ or something," he says mildly. He walks past Feuilly on the sofa and pointedly shoves his boots off the coffee table.

"I could. I don't."

Grantaire sighs and pulls a beer out of the fridge. He turns to ask Feuilly if he wants one, but Feuilly lifts his own bottle in a toast.

"Make yourself at home," Grantaire grumbles without heat. He sprawls across the armchair next to the sofa, legs over one arm. "So what's up? You must have heard something, or you wouldn't have stopped by."

"Why? Who says I can't just want to hang out with an old friend and drink his beer?"

"Feuilly."

"Okay. I've been hearing some rumblings from our esteemed friend's organization lately. The underlings, mostly--the ones who don't know when they ought to shut up and probably won't live long enough to learn."

"And what are these chatty little underlings saying?"

"That Montparnasse is getting itchy--doesn't like the fact that Claquesous is in custody. He's worried about what 'Sous might say."

" _Nothing_ is what he's saying, from what I can tell."

"Well, that's stupid of him. Even if your boss lets him go, Monty will assume that he talked. He'll have to take him out just to discourage that sort of thing in the future. Claquesous thinks he's a vital component of Monty's organization, but you know Monty--anybody can be replaced. If he cooperates with the Feds, maybe they can cut him some slack, stick him in protective custody or witness protection."

"That would be smart--but Claquesous was never one of Monty's brightest bulbs."

"Five watts and sputtering," Feuilly agrees.

"And he's not my boss."

"Hm?"

"Enjolras. You called him my _boss_ a minute ago. He's not my boss."

Feuilly snorts. "He tells you to do stuff and you have to do it. I've had enough jobs to know--that's the definition of a boss."

"Isn't that also the definition of a dom?"

"No. Doms tell you to do stuff and make you _want_ to do it." Feuilly sets the empty beer down and stretches as he stands, letting his shirt ride up to show the fingertip bruises on his hipbone.

"Tell Bahorel I said hello, then."

"Yeah, sure. Tell your boss I said hi."

"Fuck you," Grantaire grumbles, and Feuilly laughs as he closes the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, I was wondering," Grantaire says, leaning on Enjolras' desk.

Enjolras looks up. There is no way that this is the preface to anything good. "Wondering what?" he asks, reluctantly falling into the role that Grantaire's banter demands. The idea of him playing the straight man is laughable in more ways than one.

"Has Claquesous said anything interesting?"

"That's on a need-to-know basis."

"So he hasn't."

Enjolras stops working and turns to Grantaire with an impatient look. "Do you have any suggestions on the subject?"

"Yeah." Grantaire waits a beat. "Let him go."

"Are you _serious_?"

"Yeah--think about it. Have you guys subtly reminded him of the welcome he's likely to receive from Monty when he's released? He's been in custody awaiting trial for weeks now. Whether he's said anything or not, Monty can't take the risk that he might have been compromised. And he definitely can't keep a potential informer in his ranks--he'll take Claquesous out and dump his body in the Hudson without a second thought."

"That's just more reason for him to stall us."

"Not if you sweeten the pot."

Enjolras doesn't like the idea of offering any member of Montparnasse's organization something to _sweeten the pot_ , but he might as well hear Grantaire out. It's not like they've got anything to lose, at this point. "How so?"

"Offer him protection. He knows what Monty's capable of, he just doesn't believe it's applicable to him. Convince him it is, and he won't be able to _stop_ talking."

Enjolras frowns at him. "You're suddenly a fount of good advice. What's in this for you?"

"Nothing," Grantaire replies too quickly. "Except..."

Enjolras doesn't prompt him; he just waits.

"My radius is still centered on that crappy hotel you guys originally stuck me in. Sister's place is right on the edge of that bubble--if I take Westley out for a walk, I can't go south or I'm outside my radius. Is there anything you could do about that?"

Enjolras considers the potential outcomes of shifting the radius against the value of the advice Grantaire's given him, and he figures it's an adequate exchange. "I can check with the Marshals and see if they'd be willing to change the parameters."

Grantaire winces. "Could you have Eponine check with them instead?"

"Why?"

"Because she's good with people. Not that you _aren't_ good with people, she's just...better."

Enjolras has to acknowledge that there's a little bit of truth in that statement. "Okay, fine. I'll have Eponine make the call. Don't you have something to do?"

"Nope," he said brightly.

"Great. Go see if Records can use some help."

Grantaire's face falls comically, and Enjolras picks up the phone to talk to Eponine. She's not at her desk, so he pulls up a map, just to confirm what he already suspected. There are going to be side effects to this decision, but it really is only fair. In fact, he feels a little guilty for not having his radius adjusted sooner. It has to be a hardship for Grantaire, being constantly on alert for the warning signal, waiting for the alarm to go off if he crosses the wrong street...

Eponine walks past, and Enjolras waves her down. "Hey, I was just trying to call you. Could you do me a favor?"

"Depends on the favor."

"Could you call the Marshals and get Grantaire's radius adjusted? Still two miles, of course, but centered on his current address. It's not fair if he blows his radius taking a walk around the block, you know?"

"Sure," she says, and Enjolras thinks it might really be that easy.

But of course it isn't--she's far too observant to miss something like that. She comes back five minutes later. "Boss, your house is inside the new radius. You sure you don't mind him stopping by for tea?"

"I'm resigned to it," Enjolras says ruefully. "He and Combeferre get along really well--I think he was happier than Grantaire was when he had to spend the night at our place. They have a _book club_."

"Wow. That doesn't bother you?"

"Not really. I trust them...or I trust _Combeferre_ , anyway, and he'd tell me if he noticed anything out of the ordinary."

"Okay. If you're sure..."

"I'm sure, go ahead."

She goes back to her desk and calls him a few minutes later. "It's done," she says. "Just be careful, okay? Valjean won't care if he's hanging out with Combeferre, but if anybody higher up finds out..."

By _anybody higher up_ , she means Javert. "I know."

 

 

The consequences of his decision make themselves clear Saturday afternoon, when Enjolras comes back from running errands to find Combeferre sitting in one of the kitchen chairs with his hands bound behind his back.

"What the _hell_ ," Enjolras gasps, dropping the bag of groceries in the hall. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Combeferre blinks. "I'm fine."

"It's not what it looks like!" Grantaire says, stepping into view with his eyes wide and his hands spread innocently.

" _Really_ ," Enjolras bites out. "You want to tell me what it _is_ , then?"

"Grantaire's teaching me how to escape handcuffs," Combeferre says.

"He's got it down to three minutes," Grantaire adds, with a trace of pride.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. "Which is what, ten times as long as it takes you?"

"I decline to answer that question on the grounds that--"

"Yeah, okay, never mind."

Combeferre is frowning to himself, concentrating on the handcuffs behind him.

"So how exactly did this happen?"

"I wanted Grantaire to come over and look at the paint chips we got--I thought he could help us narrow it down."

"And the escape-artist lesson was a logical progression from that?"

"Hey, it's a great party trick," Grantaire says.

Combeferre nods. "And I thought it might be good to know. You know how fast a rally or a protest can go south."

He knows. In fact, he knows that better than he'd ever wanted to. "And  _fleeing the police_ is a valid alternative to calling our lawyer?" Enjolras asks.

"Courfeyrac never lets us live it down."

Grantaire frowns. "Wait. The same Courfeyrac who held the party where you guys met?"

"Yes," Enjolras says. "He's one of the best lawyers in the city--a little teasing is more than fair, for the discount we get."

"I know, I know." Combeferre frowns, concentrating.

"I shouldn't even know you can _do_ this," Enjolras complains.

Combeferre shrugs, and the lock _clicks_. He holds out his hands with a proud grin. "Spousal privilege. They can't make you testify against me."

Enjolras frowns at the cuffs while Combeferre bends over the second lock. "And where did you even get a pair of police-issue--" His voice dies. "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

Grantaire doesn't even have the courtesy to look guilty. "I was going to leave them on your desk Monday morning, and hope you'd just think you dropped them."

"This is exactly the kind of thing that is going to get you sent back to prison one of these days, you know--"

"Here." Combeferre hands the cuffs back to him. "No harm done."

Enjolras takes the cuffs and puts them in his coat pocket.

"You should give it a try," Grantaire says.

"I don't think so."

Grantaire nods sagely. "It's okay. Not everyone can do it."

Enjolras hesitates. This is not just a bad idea. This is the _worst_ idea. He takes the handcuffs out of his pocket and hangs up his coat. "Give the keys to Combeferre."

"You don't trust me?"

"I know that your impulse control is not exactly stellar, so...no."

Grantaire hands the keys to Combeferre, and Enjolras sits down. Grantaire fastens the cuffs around his wrists--a little tightly, Enjolras has to say. "Okay," Grantaire says. "So first you--"

"I know the principle," Enjolras replies.

Grantaire presses a pristine paperclip into his hand. "Great. Have fun."

Enjolras really does understand the basics of escaping handcuffs--it's a good thing to know, in his line of work, and he's practiced before. But sitting on a kitchen chair, with Grantaire and Combeferre both watching him expectantly, is another matter entirely.

He closes his eyes, the better to focus on the task at hand. "You are not helping my concentration."

"Sorry," Combeferre says. He goes into the hall and picks up the bag of groceries that Enjolras had dropped, and he goes to put it away.

It takes more than five minutes, which is kind of embarrassing. Four-and-a-half minutes in, Combeferre comes up behind him and plants a kiss on the top of his head. "You know the ones upstairs have release catches, right?"

Enjolras feels his face go scarlet, and Grantaire's eyes are suddenly wide. So much for their illusions of privacy.

A few seconds later, the lock catches, and Enjolras unfastens the other cuff quickly now that he can see what he's doing. "There." He stands up. "Are you happy now?"

"Very." Grantaire grins. "I wish I'd taken a picture of that."

Combeferre holds up his cell phone. "I've got you covered."

"Are you sure you don't want to take him _with_ you?" Enjolras asks Grantaire plaintively.

"Nah, you'd probably be even grumpier if I stole your husband. I'll get a cab and leave you two alone."

Combeferre glances over at Enjolras, who can't help rolling his eyes a little. "Stay, if you want," he says. "We're just going to reheat some pizza and watch _Blade Runner_ , but you're welcome to stay."

" _Blade Runner_?" Grantaire echoes. "What, is Saturday classic sci-fi day?"

Combeferre steps up behind Enjolras and wraps his arms around his waist--a little too friendly in front of company, but Enjolras can't bring himself to mind. Until Combeferre says, "It may have escaped your notice, what with the whole dashing-secret-agent persona, but my husband is an _enormous nerd_."

"Oh, that's rich," Enjolras complains, "coming from a guy who thinks elven linguistics make for acceptable pillow talk."

Grantaire just blinks. "I am learning _entirely_ too much about you two. Please don't stop."

Enjolras exchanges a slightly panicked look with Combeferre, and he immediately abandons the conversation in favor of reheating the pizza.

This time, it's Combeferre who falls asleep halfway through the movie. Enjolras pulls a throw off the back of the couch to drape it over Combeferre's lap. When Grantaire notices, he nods towards the door, like he's offering to leave again. Enjolras just shakes his head and raises a finger to his lips, not wanting to wake Combeferre.

They watch the climactic rooftop scene in silence, and it isn't until the credits roll that Grantaire speaks again. "So you think Deckard is a replicant, or not?"

"The narrative isn't clear."

"Of course it is. The unicorn thing, you know? He's definitely a replicant."

"It's not that cut-and-dried. The implication is there, but that's not sufficient evidence to build a case."

"We're speculating, not putting him on trial. And I like the idea. Hunting his own kind..."

"Don't," Enjolras replies.

"Don't what?"

"You're trying to draw some kind of parallel implying that we're both replicants, that we're somehow the _same_ , and just...don't."

Grantaire sighs mournfully. "There goes my subtle comparison. Like...tears in rain."

Enjolras hits him with a pillow.

 

* * * 

 

As if watching Enjolras struggle to escape handcuffs wasn't going to make Grantaire insufferable _enough_ , Eponine brings him news just after lunch on Monday. "There's a message on the tapped phone at Penn Station," she says. "It's gibberish to us, but we took it to Claquesous and he told us what it meant."

"Claquesous _talked_?"

She nods. "They took your suggestion and started to talk about letting him go, and what kind of welcome he could expect from Montparnasse. He couldn't explain the phone message fast enough."

"What did he say?"

"That there's a meeting of some kind at one of Montparnasse's properties. He gave us the address and the time."

"Time--not date?"

She shakes her head. "It's tonight."

"Do we have time to put together an op between now and then?"

"Valjean's working on it. Tell Grantaire to be ready, okay?"

"I will," Enjolras says. He's not looking forward to puffing up Grantaire's ego, but it can't be helped. "You were right," he says, as soon as he gets back to his desk. "Claquesous decided to cooperate, and he's helping the Bureau break down a message from the phone at Penn Station." 

"Oh?"

Enjolras has never seen such a smug expression on anyone's face in his life. "Once we've got the message worked out, the idea is to send you in and see what's going on. With an agent as backup."

Grantaire brightens, and it occurs to Enjolras that he hasn't had a lot of opportunities so far to put his unique skill-set to use.

"Can you tell me what to expect?" Enjolras asks.

"Monty won't be there," Grantaire says immediately. "The message would have specified, and Claquesous would have noticed that right away."

Enjolras frowns. "So what is this, then?"

"Probably a poker game."

" _What_?"

"A few of the local criminal personalities like playing poker. They get together, they take each other's money, they talk about work. Sometimes deals get made. It would be a pretty good time to pick up some leads."

"And how do you intend to do that?"

"How else? I'll sit in on a couple of hands. I doubt anybody there will even know me. Four years is a long time to stay in Monty's good graces."

"And if someone _does_ know you?"

"That's what you're there for, right? With the gun and all?" Grantaire grins. "You can play my bodyguard. We'll get you some mirrored sunglasses--nobody will have any idea who you are."

Enjolras sighs.

"Look, do you want to be a fly on the wall at this meeting, or not? Because I can go home and paint this evening, it's all the same to me."

It's not like they have much of a choice; it's been weeks since they've had any leads at all from the phone, and they can't take the chance of squandering this one. "Okay," Enjolras says. "I'll call home and tell Combeferre I'll be late."

 

* * *

 

The poker game is taking place on the top floor of an extremely upscale apartment building. It's pouring rain when they get out of the cab, which is better than snow but not by much. They can't even get to the elevators without a keycard, or someone to vouch for them at the front desk.

Enjolras sighs. "Any ideas?"

"Sure. This'll be easy."

" _Easy_."

"Yeah." Grantaire hands the umbrella off to Enjolras, letting the cold rain soak into his hair and his coat. "You can come in if you want, but keep your distance. Once I'm in, go outside and find the back door--I'll let you in."

Without waiting for Enjolras to reply, Grantaire walks into the building, nodding to the doorman like he's an old friend. Enjolras follows at a discreet distance, stepping into the relief of the warm, dry lobby.

Grantaire dashes up to the woman at the desk, and his whole demeanor changes in a way that shouldn't surprise Enjolras as much as it does, even after all this time. His spine straightens, his eyes widen, and the smile that curves his lips is bright but harried.

"Hi," he says. "Look, I know this is really awkward, but I left my keys upstairs this morning, and my girlfriend--well, fiancée, I hope, after tonight?--she isn't answering my calls. She's probably in the shower getting ready for dinner, and I really, really need to change before we go to the restaurant. I mean, would _you_ accept a proposal from a drowned sewer rat? If you can just let me into the elevator, I'm sure she'll answer the door when I get there..."

This is ridiculous. It is never, _ever_ going to work, and the woman at the desk is going to call the police, and Enjolras is going to have to break cover to keep Grantaire from getting arrested--

And she smiles and buzzes him through. Enjolras can't help but stare after him in disbelief for a moment. Then he recovers himself and goes back out in the rain to wait by the back door.

He doesn't have to wait long. Grantaire pushes open the door, grinning, and lets Enjolras inside. He's slicked back his hair so that it looks intentional rather than bedraggled. "Hey, come on in."

Enjolras steps inside and abandons the umbrella by the door; it doesn't fit his cover. They make their way back to the elevators. "How did you do that?" Enjolras asks.

He shrugs. "People like to think they're being helpful. The right hard-luck tale, a little bit of romance, and people fall all over themselves to give you what you need. It's just a matter of reading people and spinning the right story."

"You ever misread someone? Tell them the wrong story?"

"Every once in a while."

"Have you ever found someone you couldn't read at all?"

"Just once."

Enjolras glances over at him.

Grantaire gives him a half-smile. "You."

"Don't flatter me."

An elevator door opens, and they step on. They're the only ones. Enjolras reaches out to press the button for the top floor, but it just flashes, and the elevator doesn't move. Closer examination reveals that they need a key-card to access the top floor. "Now what?" he asks.

"Oh, right." Grantaire takes a plain black key-card out of his pocket and holds it up to the card-reader. There's a beep, and when Grantaire presses the button for the top floor it stays lit.

"Where did you get that?"

"Found it on the floor," Grantaire says blandly. "People should be more careful with their things."

Enjolras opens his mouth. He's not sure what he's going to say, but Grantaire can't just go around _picking people's pockets_ for their key-cards. Before he can figure out what to say, Grantaire grins.

"Hey--you fixed your pants."

Enjolras shrugs and decides to postpone his tirade until later. "Well, somebody told me that they were occupying a sartorial no-fly zone between flood and half-break, so I had the hems let out a little."

"I'm so proud."

"Shut up."

The elevator reaches the top floor, and the doors slide open. They step out into a short hallway that leads to the main room; Enjolras can hear voices at the other end of the hall.

"Oh, here--before I forget." Grantaire fishes a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and hands them to Enjolras. "Your disguise."

Enjolras sighs and puts the sunglasses on. "I look like an asshole."

"Good. People expect security guards to be assholes. All you have to do is stand back and look menacing."

Enjolras glares.

"That's pathetic. You look like the Yankees just lost."

He sighs and rolls his eyes.

"Now you look like they lost to the Red Sox. Just forget it."

They walk down the hall together, and Grantaire stops in the doorway, where several people are sitting around a green felt table. There are still a few open chairs. Grantaire leans over to Enjolras and whispers, "You know, I've been reading up on the Tea Party, and I really think they've got some good ideas about--"

Enjolras turns on him, and Grantaire grins. "There, perfect! Now hold that, and cross your arms so they can see that you're carrying." He takes a step back to admire his handiwork. "Wow."

"What?" Enjolras snaps, scowling.

"You really do look like an avenging angel. I could _paint_ you. Now I'm going to go play some poker. You just stand back and try to make sure no one shoots me."

"No promises," Enjolras mutters, and Grantaire smiles again and crosses the room to take a seat at the table.

Grantaire walks over to the table, turns a chair around backwards, and straddles it. "So when do we start?" he asks, obnoxiously loud. Enjolras folds his arms over his chest and hopes that Grantaire isn't going to get them both killed.

"We start when we're ready," one woman says coldly. She looks familiar, like the FBI might have a file on her somewhere. And if they don't, they should. Everyone in this room has some kind of connection to Montparnasse, and that means that the FBI should be keeping an eye on every single one of them.

"Sorry," Grantaire says, flashing her a smile. "I just haven't played in a while, and I'm anxious to get started."

That gets everyone's attention--if Grantaire is rusty, he'll be easy to fleece. The conversations end, and everyone sits down at the table. Eight of them, in all.

Enjolras keeps still as they get ready and doesn't let his expression change, not even when Grantaire offers a Rolex to serve as his stake. Internally, he swears a blue streak. It's definitely one of the ones that Grantaire had been eyeing on their visit to the evidence lock-up, two months ago. But how he'd managed to get his hands on it, when Enjolras had been watching him the _entire time_... They're definitely going to have a talk about this later.

But then the game starts, and Enjolras' attention is taken up with keeping an eye on Grantaire while trying to memorize names and faces of the other players, in case they should show up again. Grantaire doesn't play poker the way that Enjolras would; he's entirely too happy to raise on a meager hand, and he folds when Enjolras would have played on. He can only assume that Grantaire is picking up on the attitudes in the room, and that he knows what he's doing. For an hour or so, everything goes well. Grantaire loses more than half his stake before making it back in a couple of reckless bluffs.

Enjolras sees the problem coming a whole minute before it happens. At the call of a particularly long hand, a man sitting next to the dealer lays down a pair of kings--hearts and spades.

Grantaire's still holding a king-high flush in his hand. Hearts.

Someone at the table is fucking around, and Enjolras wishes he could be certain that it wasn't Grantaire. But there's no reason for him to make a fuss. He can fold, claim he was bluffing, concede with good humor and no one will ever know--

Grantaire taps his cards pensively on the table. "Well, everyone, it seems we have an abundance of royalty just now." He lays down the flush and looks across the table at the other king of hearts.

The man's hand dips below the table, and Enjolras tenses, calculating trajectories and target priorities and escape routes.

But Grantaire is still smiling. "Now, I don't want to go accusing anyone of anything, so I'm just going to assume that there's been some kind of mistake. And to show I'm not upset, I'll leave my winnings--including the stake I put in to start." He pushes the stack of chips into the center of the table. "Have a nice evening, everyone."

He gets up, and nobody shoots him, which is a relief for everyone involved. Grantaire beckons Enjolras to follow him with a sharp jerk of his fingers, and Enjolras does not sigh when he obeys, even though he knows that bossing Enjolras around is a definite perk of this cover, as far as Grantaire is concerned.

They get back on the elevator and don't say a word until they're safely on the sidewalk. Enjolras pulls off the sunglasses, which look even more ridiculous now that it's ten in the evening. "What the hell was that? Were you _cheating_?"

"No. I was prepared to, if it would have helped matters, but someone cheated _for_ me and saved me the trouble. I don't know if it was the dealer or the guy who played the pair of kings, but it doesn't really matter. By conceding the hand--and the stake--I make an impression. Generosity, slow temper, a sense of humor..."

"And what good is your impression going to do us?"

"Not much--until someone sees the business card that I tucked underneath the chips. They might decide that they can use someone like me, and then we'll have a chance to make a new contact in the New York City crime business."

Enjolras has to admit that it's a decent plan. "What number did you leave?"

"The one for the phone the FBI gave me. I imagine it's already tapped, so I thought I'd save you the trouble."

He doesn't bother to deny it, and the FBI is legally allowed to do it, even though Enjolras wasn't comfortable with the idea. If Grantaire is going to get involved in anything criminal, he'd hardly use the phone the FBI gave him, anyway. Phones are easy enough to come by, especially when you're as gifted a thief as Grantaire.

Enjolras hails a cab, and they head back to the Bureau for debriefing. Grantaire leans back against the seat. "You think the FBI's going to reimburse me for the watch I put up for a stake?"

"The watch that came out of the Bureau's own evidence locker? No, I really don't think so," Enjolras replies.

Grantaire pouts.

"Nice try, though. I just have one more question."

"Yeah?"

"You weren't _serious_ about the Tea Party stuff, right?"

Grantaire just laughs.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire's phone rings late at night. He rolls over and answers it without looking at the caller ID--it's only ever Enjolras, or sometimes Feuilly if he feels like talking in code for ten minutes. Unless...

"Hello?"

"That was clever, slipping the card in with your chips. Risky, though."

Grantaire hopes that his phone is recording, but in case it isn't, he starts cataloging everything he can about the voice on the other end of the line. Male, probably older than Grantaire, slight accent--western US, maybe Nebraska? "I knew it would get to the right person in the end. What can I do for you?"

"I have a business proposition for you. Can we meet?"

"Now?" Grantaire peers at the clock. Twelve-thirty. Enjolras won't be terribly pleased if he gets woken up at this hour.

"If you're too busy, I can find someone else for the job."

"Not at all. Where do you want to meet?"

He names a place that's within Grantaire's radius and hangs up. Grantaire considers not calling Enjolras at all--there's no reason to bother him, is there? But if Grantaire starts to do FBI work behind Enjolras' back, Enjolras is going to start wondering what _else_ Grantaire is doing behind his back, and that's not going to help anyone.

So he calls.

"Hello?" It's Combeferre on the other end of the line, his voice hushed. Enjolras is probably already asleep then.

"Hey, it's Grantaire. I just got a contact that Enjolras needs to hear about. If you don't mind, could you--"

"I'm here," Enjolras says. His voice sounds a little hazy, like either he's just woken up or--

"Oh my god, am I interrupting something?"

"No," Combeferre says. They must have him on speaker.

"Yes," Enjolras counters wearily. "What's going on?"

"I'm sorry, I wouldn't have called if it wasn't important."

"So what is it?"

"Someone found my card in with the chips. They want to meet. Now."

There's a creak of bedsprings. "Is it in your radius?"

"Yeah."

"Text me the address--I'll meet you there."

"Keep your distance. If something goes wrong, I'll let you know."

"How will you--"

"Don't worry. You'll know." Grantaire hangs up the phone and texts the location to Enjolras before changing his clothes and catching a cab. He has the driver let him off a block away and walks up to the meeting place alone.

It's a small, decorative fountain, still turned off against the possibility of a freeze. It's also completely deserted, and that makes Grantaire a little nervous. He doesn't think he's being set up, and Enjolras should be somewhere nearby if he _is_ , but it gives him a little itch between his shoulder blades, like he's waiting for a sniper to plant a bullet there.

Someone steps out of the shadows in a nearby alley. "Grantaire."

He nods. "What can I do for you?"

"I've heard your name before. I'm interested in the acquisition of a certain item, and I believe you could be of assistance to me."

"I'm sure we can come to an agreement," Grantaire says lightly. "But I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. What should I call you?"

"Names aren't necessary at this juncture."

"You know mine--it's only fair."

"Fair." He smiles thinly, and Grantaire tries to catalog the man's features in the glare of passing headlights. "Are you interested in the job, or not?"

"I'm interested," Grantaire says, abandoning the hope of getting a name out of the guy. "What do you need?"

"There's a particular sculpture in private hands."

"How large? If I can't carry it, that's going to complicate things."

"Small. One foot high, approximately fifteen pounds."

"Material?"

"Marble. It's a small Roman statuette."

Grantaire nods. That's a little easier to handle than something postmodern in glass and steel. Easier to conceal, easier to carry. "Security?"

"Standard--alarms on all doors and windows, and a weight distribution sensor for the item itself."

"Just like Indiana Jones."

He doesn't respond to the reference; he just hands Grantaire a card with gloved hands. "The location. How long will this take you?"

"I'll need to do some reconnaissance. A week?"

"That will do. You can call me when you've retrieved the item."

"Then we'll be in touch." Grantaire walks away, and he waits until he's a block from the meet to turn around and look for pursuit. When he doesn't see anyone, he takes out his phone and calls Enjolras.

He's waiting around a corner in the car; Grantaire had seen him pass by once while he was talking to his contact.

Grantaire knocks on the passenger window. "Hey, stranger. Voulez-vous--?"

"Get in," Enjolras mutters.

Grantaire opens the door and sits down. Enjolras drives off, keeping a wary eye on the rearview mirror. "Everything okay?" he asks.

"Seems pretty good. Are we going back to headquarters to debrief, or..."

"I've got a recorder at the house. We can play it back for everyone tomorrow."

When they get to the house, Combeferre is waiting for them with a pot of tea. He kisses Enjolras on the cheek. "I'm going to bed. Glad you're back."

"Mm. Me, too."

"Good night, Grantaire."

"Good night," he replies, trying not to think about what he'd been doing with Enjolras when Grantaire had called him. It must be nice, though, to have someone to wait up for you when you're out late. At best, Grantaire will wake Westley up when he comes back and have to endure ten minutes of affronted yipping until he settles back down.

Enjolras turns on the recorder, and Grantaire dutifully goes over every detail of the meet.

"He never gave his name?"

"No," Grantaire says. "But if you've got a pencil and paper, I can make you a sketch."

Enjolras finds him a piece of paper and a pencil that isn't too dull, and Grantaire sketches his contact's face while Enjolras asks him for more details. After a while, Grantaire sits back and eyes the paper, and then he slides the drawing back over to Enjolras. "That's what he looked like."

"Thanks. We'll pass the sketch around, see if anybody can put a name to the face."

"Claquesous probably could," Grantaire suggests. "If all else fails."

"I'll keep that in mind."

There's an awkward pause; Grantaire reaches out and switches off the recorder. "Sorry I called at a...weird time," he says, not meeting Enjolras' eyes.

"It's fine," Enjolras says. "I'm glad you called, instead of going off on your own."

"It was a thought," Grantaire admits.

"I'm glad that's all it was. Do you want me to drive you back? Or do you want the guest room again?"

"I can make it back on my own."

"I'll drive you back."

"You don't have to."

"Don't be stubborn."

Grantaire blinks at him. "Don't be stubborn? This, from the single most stubborn human being in _the entire universe_?"

"Just stop arguing about it, please? Tomorrow's going to be a long day as it is."

Grantaire gives him a break, on account of it being after one in the morning, and accepts the ride back to Sister's house in peace. 

 

* * *

 

"So what's the plan?" Grantaire asks, as soon as they get to the department the next morning.

"Who says there's a plan?"

"Please. You were up half the night coming up with one--don't even try to deny it. Is there any regular coffee in that cup, or is it one giant shot of espresso?"

Enjolras scoots the cup closer to himself, looking for all the world like a grumpy blond dragon defending his hoard. "I decline to answer that question on the grounds that I may incriminate myself," he says primly, and Grantaire can't help laughing.

"Okay, okay. Seriously, though--what have we got?"

"Your contact's name is Dominic Morgan. He's got half a dozen warrants out on him already, but he doesn't seem to be directly connected with Montparnasse."

Grantaire shrugs. "Not everybody who turns up at those poker games works for him. Outside people hear about it through certain channels, and they come to size up the competition--or, in this case, create new working relationships. What are the warrants for?"

"A couple of theft charges, receipt of stolen property, and um...one attempted murder," Enjolras says quickly. "But I'm sure that's nothing to worry about."

Grantaire stares. "Nothing to worry about. I'm supposed to double-cross this guy, and his known propensity for trying to kill people is _nothing to worry about_?"

"You're never going to be out of contact with the Bureau," Enjolras says. "I'll make sure of it."

"That's very reassuring."

Enjolras unsubtly changes the subject. "Eponine's getting in touch with the woman who lives at the address you were given. Her name is Ellen Haviland. The goal is to have her leave town while you steal the piece, and then we can make the arrest when you meet Dominic to make the exchange."

"That sounds smart."

"Of course, we'll have to arrest you, too, or your contact will know that you were in on it."

"Of course," Grantaire echoes dryly. It would be too much to hope for, getting out of one of these plans _without_ getting put in handcuffs. You'd almost think Enjolras had a kink for arresting him.

 

 

It takes two more days to finish the planning. Mrs. Haviland arranges to visit some friends in Boston, and her apartment is empty and ready to be robbed.

The Bureau wants to have agents on hand for this, so they pull up across the street from the apartment building in exactly the kind of nondescript van that every other police force in the modern era has used. It's so inconspicuous that it _becomes_ conspicuous, but now is not the time to mention that to Enjolras; he looks a little wound up already.

Like _he's_ the one taking all the risks today. Grantaire sighs. "One more time: You're absolutely certain that this is sanctioned by the FBI, and that I'm not going to go to jail for demonstrating my awesome cat burglary skills."

"I haven't observed any awesome cat burglary skills," Enjolras counters. "Just a lot of talk."

"Just tell me I'm not really going to jail for this."

"We'll have to arrest you just to avoid suspicion on the part of your employer, but we'll drive you to headquarters instead of prison. Don't worry."

"Worry? Me? What could I _possibly_ have to worry about?" Grantaire mutters.

"Everything's going to be fine. Now would you get going? I hate this van."

"You can't rush perfection," Grantaire says loftily, and he lets the van door slam behind him. He takes a walk around the block, and then he crosses the street towards the building.

Getting inside is easy--people are always happy to hold the door for you. He just walks up behind a man who's pushing the door open and slips right in behind him with a nod of thanks. Then it's up thirty-six floors to Mrs. Haviland's suite.

He knows that the security system is still in place. He has the alarm code for the front door, helpfully provided by the FBI and Mrs. Haviland herself, but that still leaves the matter of the weight distribution alarm. If he just picks up the statue and walks off with it, the alarm will go off, and the local police will rush in. The FBI will probably get drawn into the mess, Dominic will find out about it, and the whole operation will end in disaster.

No pressure, or anything.

Fortunately, Grantaire is good at math. Once he gets a good look at the statue, he'll be able to find something to match its approximate weight. Then he just has to make a smooth transfer.

He tries the door with one gloved hand, but of course it's locked. Wouldn't want any _unauthorized_ thieves breaking in over the weekend, after all. He pulls the little leather case of lockpicks out of his pocket, glances around the hall, and sets to work.

It doesn't take him very long--it's clear that Mrs. Haviland puts more stock in the alarm system than the lock itself. He pushes open the door.

For a moment it's difficult to tell whether he's standing in an apartment or a small art gallery. The walls are lined with paintings, and Grantaire can identify most of them--a Cassatt, a Miró, two small Picasso sketches. And then there's the sculpture.

There are several pieces in the room, from modern to classical. There's even a tiny Calder, waiting for the merest breath of air to set it swinging. Grantaire resists the urge and passes by, and that's when he sees it: The twelve-inch-high statuette this whole thing hinges on. It's a statue of Antinous, exquisitely detailed, and made all the more impressive by its diminutive size. All he needs to do is get it off its pedestal--and get past the alarm. He glances around the room, looking for a likely substitute for the statue's weight.

There's a heavy glass flower vase near the window, holding an array of silk flowers. In the bottom of the vase is a six-inch-deep pile of clear glass marbles.

Grantaire dismantles the flower arrangement and hefts the vase itself, testing the weight. He looks back at the statue again, considering the density of the marble and whether the metal base is solid or hollow. He ends up crossing the room and tapping it gently. It rings faintly--hollow, then. He scoops a handful of marbles out of the vase, frowns, and takes three more out. Then he adds one back, for luck, and approaches the statuette.

There's no room for hesitation here--if he flinches or fumbles, the alarm will go off, and he's screwed. He eases the statue off the platform and sets the bag of marbles down in its place, all in the space of a heartbeat. He stands still for a moment, waiting, but nothing happens. Either it's a silent alarm, or he's made a smooth handoff.

Still, there's no reason to linger. He wraps the statue in a towel from the bathroom--nobody told him he could take a towel, but it's a little less suspicious than walking out of the building with a two-thousand-year-old statue clutched in his fist like an Oscar.

He's halfway to the door when the doorknob starts to turn, very slowly, like a nightmare. Grantaire looks around desperately and flings himself headlong into the coat closet just as the door opens.

He doesn't even have time to close the closet door all the way. Two sets of footsteps shuffle across the floor, and then a shape rumbles past the closet, and Grantaire makes out a sliver of mop-handle through the gap.

Cleaning service. Nobody had said anything about a cleaning service--Mrs. Haviland was probably so used to them that the thought slipped her mind entirely. If he'd finished ten seconds earlier, he would have stepped out into the hallway just as they were walking in, and there would have been no explaining himself.

He eases himself further back in the closet, among the faint mothball smell and a few vintage furs. He can't go anywhere until the cleaners are gone; from this angle, there's no way to see how far into the apartment they've gotten, and he can't risk stepping out of the coat closet and being caught. But Enjolras had given him a very firm fifteen-minute window to get the statue and get out--otherwise he was going to come in after him.

Enjolras does not make empty threats.

Grantaire very carefully sets the wrapped statuette down and pulls his phone out of his pocket. It's set on silent, but he doesn't want the light to draw attention. He texts Enjolras as quickly as he can.

 _Cleaning crew. Hiding in closet, will be late_ , he sends.

Enjolras doesn't reply, which is a relief. Clearly he knows better than to risk setting off Grantaire's ringtone while he's in hiding--though Grantaire wouldn't be much of a burglar if he didn't keep it on silent, anyway. He tries not to think about the other option, that the message didn't go through, and Enjolras is going to come bursting through the door at any moment.

The cleaners seem to take hours, and Grantaire begins to wonder if they're going to notice the glass of marbles sitting on the display case where the statuette had stood. He prays that they'll just assume it's some kind of modern artwork, a new acquisition.

Once the cleaners are finally, _finally_ gone, Grantaire counts to a thousand before easing the closet door open and letting himself out of the apartment. He crosses the street and knocks on the back door of the van.

Enjolras opens the door a fraction and pulls him inside. "You don't _knock_ on the van door," he hisses. "Did you get it?"

Grantaire holds up the wrapped statue. "One stolen statue, as requested. I'll call Dominic and arrange the meet. How soon can you be ready?"

"As soon as possible."

"Bossy, bossy." Grantaire calls Dominic before they leave for the Bureau and leaves it on speaker for the benefit of the rest of the van.

"Hello?"

"I have the item you requested," Grantaire says.

"Excellent."

"When can I hand it off?"

Dominic pauses. "Thursday night."

Something is really wrong with that statement. Why would he need two days to set up the meet? Unless he doesn't have the money yet--or he's planning to put some kind of double-cross in place. He glances up at Enjolras, who frowns and gives him the tiniest head-shake.

"Look, I don't like sitting on the thing," Grantaire says. "I obtain things, I don't _keep_ them. It makes me nervous."

Dominic sighs, like Grantaire's _really inconveniencing him_ by acquiring his stolen property so quickly. "All right. Meet me this evening."

"Same place?"

"Hell, no. We'll go to the park. Seven o'clock."

One of the monitors in the back of the van beeps.

"What's that noise?" Dominic asks.

"I'm at the office," Grantaire huffs. "How do you think I make my living?"

"Whatever. Seven o'clock," Dominic says, and then he hangs up.

Grantaire pouts at the dark screen of his phone. "Nobody has any manners anymore," he says mournfully.

Enjolras doesn't respond, because he's already pulling out his own phone to coordinate the backup. Grantaire fidgets, quickly coming to understand why Enjolras hates the van. It's stuffy and claustrophobic, and above all, it's _boring_.

"Can we do the rest of the planning at the _office_?" Eponine finally asks, and Grantaire could kiss her.

"Fine," Enjolras says, without looking up.

Eponine bangs on the partition to signal the driver to take them back. Then it's an hour of waiting while Enjolras calls meetings and makes phone calls and the hour creeps steadily closer to seven.

"Are you going to have everybody in position?" Grantaire asks.

"I _do_ know how to do my job," Enjolras says, in the waspish way that is perversely reassuring.

"I'm just saying, if he's going to pull any kind of double-cross, tonight would be the time for it to happen. So if you could maybe try not to let me get shot, that would be great."

Enjolras heaves a larger-than-necessary sigh. "I feel like that's my entire job description these days."

"Someone's got to do it," Grantaire says, sing-song, and he makes himself scarce before Enjolras can retort.

   
* * *

It's not a large park, but there are still several places that Dominic could have tucked himself away. Also several places that he might have hidden backup, in case he's decided to shoot Grantaire and pocket the statue _and_ his payment. It's not an option that Grantaire's prepared to discount.

But Dominic is there, standing by a fountain again--weird habit. At least in the summer the fountain would be on, and you could count on the noise to mess with any listening devices in the area.

Grantaire walks up to him. "I've got it," he says, indicating the suitcase in his hand.

"Then I'm sure you won't mind opening the case to show me," Dominic replies.

"Not at all." Grantaire unlatches the case to reveal the statuette, sitting diagonally in the case across a bed of egg-carton foam.

"Well done," Dominic says. He closes the case and picks it up. "I'll wire your payment now." He takes an unnecessarily large step back from Grantaire, like he's putting himself outside the range of a sniper, and Grantaire isn't sure if he should duck or run or--

A horde of federal agents burst in to surround them. Grantaire isn't quite sure where they've all been hiding, and at the moment he doesn't particularly care.

"FBI!" someone shouts. It isn't Enjolras, which is a little bit worrisome. Grantaire would really like _not_ to be dragged out to some precinct station and tucked away in a holding cell with who knows how many other people--most likely including Dominic, who may or may not be convinced that Grantaire has ratted him out.

The fact that it's true doesn't make the possibility any more desirable. He holds his hands up in surrender.

Someone comes up behind him and yanks Grantaire's hands down. He wishes that he couldn't tell it was Enjolras by the smell of his shampoo, but there's no point in denying it. Enjolras tightens a pair of handcuffs around his wrists--the same cuffs he'd practiced escaping, only a few days ago. "What the hell is this?" Grantaire demands, deciding that the best defense is a good offense. He takes a step towards Dominic. "You set me up?"

Dominic is in the process of being arrested by Eponine. "Fuck you, I didn't set you up. I'm not a narc--" Eponine guides him out of the park and into a waiting police car.

"Narc is an ugly word," Grantaire sighs, and he hears Enjolras stifle a laugh.

"Stay in character," he mutters, and Grantaire keeps a surly glare on his face all the way back to headquarters.

Grantaire turns to him once they're in the elevator. "Can I have these off now?"

"Do you really need my permission for that?"

"No. But I thought you'd appreciate the gesture."

Enjolras pulls the key out of his pocket and unlocks Grantaire's handcuffs. He tucks the cuffs into his coat pocket, pointedly on the opposite side from Grantaire. It's a real burden, being so untrusted.

"You really get a kick out of manhandling me, don't you?"

"I have to sell the act," Enjolras says.

"That's not a no."

Enjolras doesn't look amused, so Grantaire just sits down at their desk and changes the subject. "Where's the statue?" It wouldn't be the first item to go missing during a sting operation, but he'd hate to disappoint Mrs. Haviland.

"Eponine's got it. She'll bring it up."

As if on cue, Eponine drops the suitcase off on Enjolras' desk, without pausing in her phone conversation. Grantaire reaches across the table and opens it up.

"Don't mess with that; it isn't ours."

Grantaire ignores him and picks up the statue. He holds it up and looks from it to Enjolras and back. "Looks like you," he says.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Be careful with that. We have to return it to Mrs. Haviland in the morning."

"Yeah, I know." He sets the statuette down on Enjolras' desk. "So do _you_ want to tell her it's a nineteenth-century copy, or should I?"


	5. April

Combeferre enjoys being the first person at the library. After Enjolras leaves in the mornings, there's not much reason to linger at the house, so usually he feeds Fitz and then leaves a few minutes later. Today, it gets him to the library about fifteen minutes early, giving him time to set things up, put the finishing touches on the week's story-time plans, and brew a pot of coffee in the staff room. He even likes watching the buzzing fluorescents come to life, illuminating the parquet floors and the rows of shelves and the broken glass on the floor--

He frowns at the sparkling shards. Broken windows have been known to happen, but this is in the center of the building, far away from any windows. He looks up at the display cases with their Dali paintings inside.

The central display, the one featuring the Alice frontispiece, is empty.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras' cell phone rings at ten after eight on Monday morning. Grantaire's out getting coffee--even Eponine trusts him not to make a run for it anymore. He checks the caller ID and smiles as he lifts the phone to his ear. "Combeferre?"

"Hi."

"What's going on? Is everything all right?"

"Well, actually...this is a business call. Someone broke into the library and walked out with one of our Dalis."

"They _what_? Okay, are you still in the building?"

"Yes..."

"Leave," Enjolras says.

"What? Why?"

"Because you don't know that they're not still in the building," Enjolras says tightly. "Wait in front of the building, and don't let anyone else go inside, okay? We'll be there in ten minutes."

In the rush, he sort of forgets about Grantaire. Not the _idea_ of Grantaire, but the fact that he's off on a coffee run sort of slips his mind. He and Eponine assemble a team out of anyone who's already working, and they get to the library in nine-and-a-half minutes, approximately thirty seconds after NYPD.

Combeferre is waiting outside the front door for them, and Enjolras makes him stay there while the FBI and NYPD work together to secure the scene.

The building is empty, and so is the central display case. Enjolras steps back and lets the specialists go through the area. It doesn't look especially good. Whoever had taken the painting had stolen it out of a sealed glass case with pressure _and_ temperature sensors, without tripping a single alarm--not even the one on the front door.

"So it's unlikely they came in that way," Enjolras says, wondering about other points of access.

"Or they had a key," Eponine supplies.

"Or that."

She gives him a funny look, and Enjolras doesn't know why until they walk outside.

"Combeferre?" Eponine asks. "Would you be willing to give a statement about what you saw?"

Combeferre's eyes flicker over to Enjolras, who nods reluctantly. Refusing to give a statement would be the worst kind of red flag, but the fact that they're even requesting a statement implies that Combeferre is under some degree of suspicion.

"Of course," he says. "I can just ride back with--"

"Me," Eponine interrupts. She gives him an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

"That's fine."

"Not a single word until Courfeyrac gets here," Enjolras says, pulling out his phone. "Not even to me."

"I know the routine."

"Stop _talking_ ," he growls, and Combeferre smiles at him before walking away with Eponine.         

Enjolras uses the privacy of his own car to call Courfeyrac and have him come down to the Bureau immediately. Not that he doubts Combeferre's ability to keep quiet, but he doesn't want this absolute farce to play out any longer than it has to.

When they get back to the Bureau, Eponine has one of the agents walk Combeferre to an interview room down the hall, and Enjolras seizes the chance to pull Eponine aside for a moment. "What exactly is going on here?"

"Not my orders, sorry. Valjean asked us to bring him over to clarify the situation."

"I know what 'clarify the situation' means. It means grill him about the robbery for two hours and try to find discrepancies in what he tells you."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"You _can't_ think he did this."

"It's not about what I think, it's about the evidence. A significant percentage of criminals report their crimes themselves, to divert suspicion. You _know_ that. We have to follow procedure, or it's going to look like--"

"Yeah, I know what it's going to look like," he mutters. Favoritism at the least; corruption at the worst. "The lawyer should be here soon."

Courfeyrac arrives half an hour later, looking like he's just barely containing his laughter at the whole absurd situation. But when he approaches Enjolras, his expression calms, and he's all business "Where is he?"

"Down the hall, second door on the left," Enjolras says.

"Have you talked to him?"

"Not alone."

"Good."

Courfeyrac adjusts his tie, winks at Enjolras, and then walks down the hall. It's the last Enjolras sees of him for almost an hour.

He'd worry more about what's happening down the hall, but he knows that Combeferre is innocent, and Courfeyrac, despite his cheerful demeanor, is one of the most tenacious defense lawyers Enjolras has ever had the good fortune to know.

Then Grantaire walks in, looking a little bit put-out. Enjolras is horrified to realize that he hasn't given him a single thought since Combeferre's call. They'd all left, and he'd been out on a coffee run....

"You sure left in a hurry."

"Sorry. We had a call."

"Your coffee's cold, by the way," Grantaire says. "What happened?"

"There was--" _There was an art theft_ , he almost says.

He's _looking_ at an art thief. A very, very good one.

"Where were you last night?" he asks, as lightly as he can manage, given the situation.

Grantaire frowns. "I was at Sister's."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

"Just the anklet. Sister's in Maui for the week, so unless you want to take the word of an extremely spoiled pug mix...What's going on?"

"Someone stole one of the Dali paintings from the library yesterday."

"No shit?"

"No shit," Enjolras echoes seriously. "They're questioning Combeferre right now."

" _Combeferre_? But that's ridiculous. He's the last person in the world who would ever steal a painting..." Grantaire trails off. "And I'm the first. Is that what you're getting at?"

Enjolras doesn't say anything. His suspicions are obvious enough; there's no need to explain.

"Check the tracking anklet--I didn't leave Sister's until this morning."

"We'll check," Enjolras says. And then he'll request last night's data from the Marshals. They were out of the office for more than an hour, and with no one to supervise Grantaire, he can't be entirely certain of the data they have here in the office. "Where did you go, when you found out we were all gone?"

"Records," he says. "I figured that would be useful, and I could flirt a little with Le Cabuc--but he's out sick, so no luck."

"That's a shame."

"You don't sound very sympathetic," Grantaire says.

"Imagine that." Enjolras picks up the phone. "Hey, Eponine, has the library sent over the security footage yet?"

"We're working on that. The administration is fussing about patron privacy and invasive government."

"As well they should," Enjolras says. He's heard the way Combeferre talks about privacy issues at the library. "But given that theft took place outside of open hours, it should be a question of security, not privacy. Call me when you get it, okay?"

Eponine sighs. "Yeah, yeah. Don't you have work to be doing?"

Of course he does. But given that his husband is currently being interrogated down the hall, his level of concentration is practically nil.

He's relieved to have something to distract him when the security footage comes in. He has no business being in the room while they go through the footage, but he doesn't have anywhere else to be right now. "Keep an eye on the time-stamps," he says.

The tech gives him a martyred look over her glasses, and Enjolras raises his hands in surrender. "Sorry. You know your job. Just let me know what you find." He stops hovering and goes back to his desk to wait.

It doesn't take long. Eponine comes over twenty minutes later with the news. "The time stalls between two-twelve and two-forty-three Sunday morning," Eponine says. "It's the same nine frames over and over--you can tell by a passing car."

Enjolras can't say he's surprised to hear it. "They edited the footage to cover the time of the theft, then. Get someone from tech to sift the code and see if they can figure out how they did it--there's always a possibility they got cocky and signed the code."

"Right."

"As for the alarms..."

A door down the hallway opens, and Enjolras' attention immediately shifts to Valjean as he approaches.

"Can I have a moment?" he asks.

"Of course." He follows Valjean into a separate room, absently pleased that at least the Bureau doesn't go in for the obligatory one-way mirrors. "I've got a couple of questions for you, as they pertain to what Combeferre said in the other room. This is all on the record, of course."

"Yes, sir."

"Could you tell us anything about Combeferre's whereabouts last night?"

"He was with me, all night."

"Did he leave the house before you this morning?"

"No."

"Could he have left during the night without your noticing? Do you take anything to help you sleep?"

"No, sir. I would have noticed."

Valjean nods. "Is there any evidence you can present to support that alibi?"

Enjolras rolls his eyes and unfastens the top two buttons of his shirt. He tugs the fabric aside to reveal a reddened bite-mark on his collarbone. "Will that be enough?"

Valjean tries not to smile; he's only about half-successful. "That's quite sufficient, I'm sure. I'm sorry to put you through this, but you know we have to follow every lead. If I was a potential suspect, I hope you would be as thorough."

"If you were a suspect, I'd recuse myself," Enjolras mutters.

"You of all people know the kind of reaction the public would have if we seemed to be lenient on persons of interest with Bureau connections."

"Yes, sir." He could have started a riot back in his college days, with just the suggestion of misused authority. "What are you going to do with Combeferre?"

"Based on his testimony and your corroboration, I don't think there's any reason to hold him. Why don't you take a long lunch and drive him home?"

Enjolras nods. "Thank you, sir." He goes back out into the hallway, where Courfeyrac and Combeferre are already waiting.

"So...?" Courfeyrac asks.

"Valjean's satisfied with the alibi I supplied for Combeferre, so we're done here. Thanks for coming by on such short notice, Courfeyrac."

"My pleasure, honestly," he says, grinning. "It warms my heart to defend the innocent from the clammy grip of the American criminal justice system."

"Uh-huh."

"Keep me posted, okay? Call me if you need anything. And even if you don't--I want to hear how this case turns out."

"Will do."

"Great. Now you two go home and have nice got-out-of-jail-free afternoon sex, okay?"

" _Bye_ , Courfeyrac," Enjolras says sharply, when three interns look up at him. He grins and gives them a little wave before he goes.

Enjolras turns to Combeferre. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," he says.

"How was it?"

"Not so bad. I know you were picturing racks and thumbscrews, but all they did was ask me a few questions. I keyed into the building four minutes before I made the call, and there's a record of that in the security system, so I think that alleviated some suspicion. And I hear my alibi comes from an unimpeachable source."

Enjolras flushes and straightens the collar of his shirt. It was kind of a petty thing to do, trying to embarrass Valjean with the bite-mark, but he'd been frustrated and angry and he can't really regret it, even now. "You didn't leave anything out, did you?"

"Well, no..." Combeferre shifts uncomfortably.

"What? You didn't _lie_ to them, did you? Courfeyrac will kill you--"

"Of course I didn't lie to them. But the questions they asked me--or the _way_ they asked them...I'm afraid I made it seem like I was shifting the blame onto Grantaire."

"How so?"

"They asked if I had ever seen him in the library, and I told them he'd come to introduce himself once. Then they asked if he'd spent time looking at the Dali paintings...and he _did_ , Enjolras, I know it sounds bad but it's the truth. And when I asked him about it, he said it would take fifteen minutes at least to disable the safeguards."

Enjolras groans. "He _didn't_."

"He did."

"Shit. That's not going to go over well."

"I know. But it was the truth..."

"Of course it was. You had to tell them."

Combeferre nods. "Maybe we should have asked Courfeyrac to stick around. Grantaire might need him."

Enjolras knows exactly how much Courfeyrac's time is worth, and he knows that Grantaire can't even come close to affording it--at least not on what the FBI is paying him. He also knows that Combeferre wasn't suggesting that it come from Grantaire's pocket.

He's due a bonus this fall, anyway. "I'll call him and ask him to turn around." He pulls his phone from his pocket, and they both jump when it rings in his hand. Enjolras frowns at the caller ID and lifts the phone to his ear. "Eponine? What's going on?"

"They found a print on the display case," she says, and her voice is grim and even.

"Did you run it?"

"It's Grantaire's."

Enjolras' heart sinks. After everything the Bureau has done--after everything he and Combeferre have done--for Grantaire to throw it all back at them like this... "Is he here?"

"Valjean went out to take him aside for questioning."

"Okay, thanks. Keep me updated." Enjolras hangs up.

Combeferre's frowning. "What happened?"

"They found Grantaire's print at the scene."

"I see." Combeferre watches him for a moment. "You think he did it."

"They found his fingerprint on the display case," Enjolras says.

"I told you--he'd been there before."

"And nobody's cleaned the glass since then?"

"I don't know, but it's _possible_ , isn't it?"

Enjolras doesn't say anything. Combeferre pulls his own phone out of his pocket. "Forget it. I'm calling Courfeyrac."

 

 

Courfeyrac is back at the Bureau within half an hour. "Please tell me neither one of you has been accused of a crime in the last twenty-six minutes," he says.

Combeferre shakes his head. "It's not us. It looks like Grantaire's going to need a lawyer. They found a fingerprint at the scene."

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. "His?"

He nods.

"Well, that doesn't sound good. Why me, though?"

"Because he's our friend." He casts a sidelong glance at Enjolras. "Or he's _my_ friend, anyway, and I want him to have a chance."

Because Courfeyrac is Courfeyrac, he doesn't even ask about his fee. "Okay. Where is he?"

Shortly after Courfeyrac disappears down the hall, Valjean comes out again. "Everything all right?" he asks, looking between the two of them.

"More or less," Combeferre says, thankfully not dragging their private argument into public. "It's really all right if I go?"

"You're cleared--you can go. I'm afraid I'm going to need your husband to stick around, though."

"Of course." Combeferre looks over at Enjolras. "I'll see you at home."

"Eventually, I'm sure," Enjolras murmurs.

Combeferre gives him a tight smile and leaves. Enjolras hopes he's actually going home and not going to the library--it's an active crime scene, so it won't even be open, and hanging around it wouldn't look good, even though he's been cleared.

"How are you doing?" Valjean asks Enjolras, when the hallway empties out.

"Just fine," he says stiffly.

"Is that so?"

"Our two primary suspects so far have been my husband and my consultant, so yes, I've had better days."

"Understandable. That's your lawyer in there, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Combeferre called him back."

Valjean just nods.

"Can I talk to Grantaire when they're finished?" 

"Is that a good idea?"

"If he's going to tell anybody the truth, it'll be me."

" _If_ ," Valjean says significantly. "Okay, you can talk to him."

Grantaire's expression brightens when Enjolras walks in, and then his face immediately falls. "You think I did it, too, don't you?"

"Do you want to talk to me alone, or do you want your lawyer present?"

"You think I did it."

"Grantaire..."

"No, I don't want the lawyer. I can't believe you think I did this." He sits back in the chair, folding his arms. At least they haven't put him in handcuffs.

"It's not about what I think. It's about the evidence."

"You mean the evidence that says I never left Sister's house last night?"

"They found your fingerprint, Grantaire," Enjolras snaps.

"Yeah, and _how many prints_ have you ever found at one of my alleged crime scenes?"

None--he's always been too careful for that. "You slipped up this time," he says.

"I never slip up," Grantaire says, quiet and confident. "And I never touched anything at the library that day--not even the damn front door."

"Then how did your print get on the glass?"

"Somebody must have planted it. I bet it was really clear, wasn't it? A whole print maybe, not a crummy partial like you'd expect. All the points of reference you could ever want. How lucky for you."

Enjolras doesn't say anything.

"And you must have checked the tracking data by now. You know it clears me. So why did you even bother putting the anklet on me if you never meant to trust what it says? And _by the way_ , that kind of discrepancy means you'd never get a conviction on this case, even if I had done it. Being in two places at once is sort of the definition of 'reasonable doubt,' as _your own lawyer_ pointed out.'"                      

"The Bureau doesn't need a conviction to send you back to prison for the next four years," Enjolras says.

Grantaire scrubs a hand through his hair. "Is that what they're going to do, then? Shit. That fucking figures--get sent back for something I didn't even _do_."

"Nothing's been decided yet."

"Oh, good."

Enjolras sighs and drops into the chair across the table from Grantaire. "I want to believe you," he says.

"What's stopping you?"

"A lack of other suspects, among other things. How many people out there can do a job like this?"

Enjolras had meant it as a rhetorical question, but Grantaire considers it. "Ten or twenty that I know of. And probably ten times as many that I don't know about."

"Well, try to think up some names that I can chase down. Otherwise..."

"Yeah, I know."

"They're going to move you to a holding cell at a local precinct for the night."

Grantaire nods. "I'm just glad they're not packing me off to super-max again."

"Not yet," Enjolras says heavily, standing up again.

"Yeah. Not yet."

When Enjolras gets home, Courfeyrac is sitting in the kitchen with a glass of wine. Well, at least this will put off the inevitable quiet argument for a little while longer.

"So...anybody want to tell me what's really going on here?" Courfeyrac asks, looking between Enjolras and Combeferre with an unseemly glint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Grantaire is a CI assigned to the Bureau, and I'm his handler. He's become friends with Combeferre, and--"

"--and you," Combeferre adds. "Don't act like he's not your friend, too."

"He _can't_ be my friend, I'm his _handler_."

Combeferre restrains himself to a raised eyebrow, which Enjolras ignores. "Anyway," he says loudly, turning back to Courfeyrac, "his continued freedom is contingent on his good behavior. If he was involved in this robbery at all, he'll spend the next four years in prison--even if he's not convicted for the robbery itself."

Courfeyrac nods. "I feel like you're not telling me two-thirds of this, but that's okay. Now _you_ think he did it, and Combeferre thinks he didn't. Right?"

"I don't know that he did it, but Combeferre refuses to entertain the very real possibility that--"

"Come _on_ ," Combeferre sighs. "You know he didn't do this. First of all, he would have worn gloves. And a smash and grab? It's not his style."

"What would _you_ know about his style?"

"Only what you've told me over the last five years," Combeferre says dryly. Technically speaking, Enjolras shouldn't have told him anything; Combeferre doesn't have security clearance.

Courfeyrac groans. "As the retained legal counsel for the suspect in question, I'm not hearing _any_ of this," he says. He downs the last of his wine. "I'm taking a cab home now. You two can collude in private."

Courfeyrac leaves, and house is very, very quiet.

"You don't really think he did this," Combeferre says.

Enjolras sighs. " _No_ , I don't. But it looks bad. Unless the evidence turns up another suspect, I'm afraid the Bureau is going to revoke the deal and send him back."

"Well, then. I guess you'd better solve this case, huh?"

"Yeah," Enjolras says bleakly. "I guess I'd better."

 

* * *

 

Eponine finds him first thing the next morning. "Enjolras? Grantaire asked for you."

He has ten thousand things to do, but all of them can wait. He walks down to the station where Grantaire's being held, and he's ushered into Grantaire's cell without a wait.

It's not bad for a holding cell, and at least it's private. Though it doesn't look like Grantaire's slept much. He should have brought coffee. "Hey."

"Hey," Grantaire says warily.

"It's come to my attention that I owe you an apology," Enjolras says delicately.

That at least coaxes a glimpse of a smile to Grantaire's lips. "Oh, yeah? What'd he do, lock you out of the bedroom?"

"No. We talked, that's all. And he's right--it wasn't fair of me to jump to conclusions like that. I'm sorry I did, and I promise I'm on your side now."

Grantaire nods. "Okay."

"So what did you want to talk about?"

He ducks his head a little. "There's...something I haven't told you," he says guiltily, and the breath goes out of Enjolras. Everything about this moment screams _confession_ , and he doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want to _have_ to hear it, and then act accordingly.

"Then tell me now," he says.

"You know Le Cabuc?"

"The guy in records, the one you had a date with. I know."

"Well, we had, um...dinner. At his place."

"Dinner," Enjolras echoes.

"Yeah, _dinner_." There's an edge in Grantaire's voice now. "With wine and everything. Do you know how easy it is to lift a print off a wine-glass? You can make a mold of it with shit you can buy at the grocery store. Then you use your own skin oils to make the print and bam--my fingerprint, in a place I've never been."

"But you _have_ been to the library."

"What, is the FBI going to interrogate everyone who's ever been to the library? Because that's really inefficient, and probably also illegal."

"Of course we're not." The library's never going to let them have the more than the overnight security tapes, anyway. They could probably force the issue by using the Patriot Act, but Enjolras hates resorting to that.

"There's more, though," Grantaire says.

"Oh, _is there_?"

"He was really interested in my...past endeavors. Not like an FBI agent, but more like...a fan, I guess. He asked me some kind of weird questions."

"Like what?"

"Like about silent alarms."

"You're kidding me."

"I'm not."

"Did you answer him?" Enjolras demands.

"Vaguely. I'm not stupid enough to say anything incriminating, even after a couple of glasses of wine. He could have gotten better information off the Internet, probably, but still. He asked. And I thought you should know."

"And you didn't think this was worth mentioning to me _before_?"

"Shortly thereafter he blew me on the couch, so no, I didn't think you'd be interested in the details."

It turns out that Enjolras is still not particularly interested in the details. But Le Cabuc's curiosity is not exactly felony material, and Grantaire could just be trying to throw him off the track, anyway.

"Have you seen him today?" Grantaire asks.

Enjolras shakes his head, trying to remember the last time he saw Le Cabuc anywhere in the building. "No. And Monday he was out sick..." The painting had been stolen before three in the morning on Sunday--two hours after the Saturday night cleaning crew had left. The theft wasn't discovered until Monday at eight, which meant that the thief had spent almost thirty hours in the clear. If Le Cabuc _had_ stolen the painting, then calling in sick had given him another twenty-four hours on top of that.

He could be anywhere in the world by now.

"I'll look into it," he says. "That's all I can promise you."

Grantaire nods. "That's all I can ask."

Enjolras goes back to headquarters and takes a look around the Records department. If Le Cabuc is there, he can just _ask_ him--

But he's nowhere to be found. Enjolras forces himself not to jump to conclusions--he could be at lunch, or on a coffee break. He ends up just going back to the front desk.

"Has anybody seen Le Cabuc this morning?"

The clerk on duty looks up and shakes her head. "He hasn't clocked in."

"Did he call?"

"Not that I know of."

Two days' absence, one without warning. And given what Grantaire had said...

He has to put the idea out there. Even if he's wrong, it's an avenue that has to be considered. He decides to run it by Eponine first. If she laughs at him, then he'll reconsider taking it to Valjean.

He stops by her desk as soon as he can. "I think we should consider Le Cabuc as a suspect," Enjolras says.

Eponine blinks. "The guy from Records?"                              

"Grantaire says he asked questions about his past crimes-- _alleged_ crimes," he corrects, imagining Grantaire's wounded look. "And that he was particularly interested in silent alarms."

"That's not a crime, necessarily."

"He's been out for two days. He hasn't called since yesterday."

Eponine considers what he's said. "So you think it was a two-man job?"

"No. I think Grantaire said a little bit too much, maybe--it's tempting, I guess, and after all he can't exactly brag about what he's done --and Le Cabuc put the plan in motion himself."

"Why, though?" Eponine asks. "Maybe he had the means, and anybody might have had the opportunity. But what's his motive?"

"Money's a little cliché, but there's a reason for that. If he's got a buyer, it could be worth millions of dollars. And he's got a perfect fall guy in Grantaire."

"It sounds pretty good," Eponine admits. "You sure it's not a little too convenient?"

"Why don't we stop by his place and ask? I mean, if he's really sick, maybe someone should go and check on him."

Eponine doesn't even give him the credit of playing along with his false concern. "You don't have a warrant, Enjolras. You can't do anything but knock on the door and see if he answers."

"So? If he does, then we can probably cross him off as a suspect. If he doesn't...then we'll see."

"All right, then." She stands up. "Let's go visiting."

Of course she wouldn't trust him not to go peeking in windows if he went alone, and under the circumstances, Enjolras can't deny that he would have been tempted. He looks up the address and they drive to Le Cabuc's house. It's a little row house with a tiny front yard. The grass, just starting to green up after winter, is littered with newspapers. Four of them, at least. Either Le Cabuc is too sick to come out and get them, or he's not at home.

Then again, there's nothing that says you have to stay at home on a sick day. He could be sitting in a doctor's waiting room right now, for all Enjolras knows. He climbs the three steps onto the front stoop and rings the doorbell.

It echoes brightly through the house. Enjolras waits one minute, and then two. He knocks instead, and waits again.

Nothing. He fishes out his phone to call Le Cabuc's phone. If he answers, Enjolras will make something up, but by now he's got an edgy, anxious feeling that Grantaire was right.

His phone rings and rings, and never connects to voicemail. Enjolras hangs up the phone and goes back to the car, where Eponine is waiting.

"No answer, to the door or the phone, and he hasn't picked up a newspaper since Friday at least."

"That's weird," Eponine says slowly. "But it doesn't mean that he ran off with a stolen painting."

"I know, I know. What about the call he made yesterday morning? We should be able to find out where he called from. If the call originated in the city, I'll drop the whole thing, I swear."

"Fair enough. But you're going to have to get Valjean's permission for that. And I'm going to let _you_ explain why."

Valjean, predictably, isn't terribly enthusiastic about tracing a call from one of his own employees. "What do you expect to get out of this, Enjolras?"

"Grantaire had dinner with Le Cabuc a few weeks ago. He says Le Cabuc was interested in the principles of planning a heist--and that he would have had the means to forge Grantaire's fingerprint and plant it at the scene."

Valjean's raised eyebrows are the only sign of what he thinks of the story. "I see." He calls down to request the trace, and they wait in the office for a response.

When the call comes, Valjean puts it on speaker for Enjolras' benefit. "What have you got for me?" Valjean asks.

Someone on the other end clears her throat. "Um...we weren't able to triangulate, actually. The call doesn't appear to have originated in the United States."

Valjean glances up at Enjolras. "Can you get us a country of origin?" he asks the tech on the phone.

"Maybe, sir, but it will take more time..."

"Go ahead. Let me know if you can give us any more detail as to his whereabouts." He ends the call and sits back in his chair. "So."

"Either he's playing a pretty serious game of hooky, or..."

"Or there's another reason for his absence," Valjean agrees. He frowns down at his desk. "We don't have enough for a warrant, but if he isn't back by tomorrow, we can at least put out an alert that he's wanted for questioning."

"And that would be sufficient evidence to let Grantaire off the hook?" Enjolras ventures. "Considering the evidence from the anklet..."

"Yes, I imagine so. We'll have him released--the anklet will alert us if he tries to run, and he's sure to be available in case we have more questions. The fingerprint is an abnormality, of course, but it isn't conclusive. They're still processing the evidence gathered at the scene, so it's possible that something else might come to light. Good _or_ bad, you'll have to be prepared for that."

"Yes, sir," Enjolras says, carefully blank.

Valjean drums his fingertips on the desk. "Whether Le Cabuc is guilty or not, he's clearly lying to us about his reasons for missing work, which isn't a good sign. I'd like to know how this guy slipped through our background checks-- _and_ our psych evaluations."

"Don't yell at Pontmercy, sir. It took a week for him to look anybody in the eye after the last time you said something to him."

Valjean looks like he's about to protest, but he subsides with a shrug. "Take Grantaire home. I'll put out an alert on Le Cabuc, and we'll see if he turns up. I hope he does," Valjean adds. "I have some very good questions to ask him."


	6. May

 On May third, Valjean calls an informal meeting on the floor. When Eponine gets there, she shoots Enjolras an inquiring frown, but he shakes his head. He doesn't know any more about the meeting than she does.

Valjean doesn't waste any time getting to the point, raising his voice over the rain lashing the windows. "We're going to be hosting an administrator from DC for a couple of weeks. This is standard procedure, to give the DC agents an idea of what goes on at the different branches. It goes without saying that I expect everyone to be on their best behavior while he's here."

His gaze tracks right over Enjolras and Grantaire, but Enjolras is fairly certain the comment was directed at them. "Sir, who's coming--"

Valjean's thin smile answers his question. "Assistant Director Javert will be observing our department."

Of course. No one's quite sure what the history is between Valjean and Javert, but it's bitter and it's never far from the surface. If he's volunteered to come out here, then it can only mean he's hoping to catch Valjean in some kind of policy breach.

"It seems that, in the wake of Le Cabuc, he thinks we need further oversight."

Enjolras sighs inwardly. They still haven't found Le Cabuc, not even a trace, and it's infuriating. By now, nobody really doubts that he's the one who stole the Dali, but the case has officially gone cold. It wouldn't bother him quite so much if Le Cabuc hadn't tried to frame Grantaire for it--and if it hadn't almost worked.

"So what does that mean?" Grantaire asks, when Valjean dismisses them.

_Nothing good_ , Enjolras thinks. "Okay. You know how sometimes, when Valjean knows that he doesn't want the answer to a particular question, he just...doesn't ask?"

Grantaire nods.

"Javert is the polar opposite of that. He _relishes_ asking questions that we don't want to answer. Questions that are not going to be answered to his satisfaction. Procedure is _everything_ to him."

"Okay, so he's an anal-retentive rulemonger. Got it."

"I don't think you understand," Enjolras counters. "He's not just a stickler for the rules, he's a brilliant investigator. There's no room for error here. You can't swipe somebody's key-card and then pretend you found it on the floor. You can't borrow people's handcuffs and hope they don't notice. He'll put you back in jail and he won't lose a minute of sleep about it. Do you understand?"

"I understand. Everything aboveboard and by-the-book."

"Good."

"So did you?" Grantaire asks, after a moment.

"Did I what?"

"Did you lose sleep over putting me in jail?"

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "I never said that."

"It was implied."

"Well, I didn't _enjoy_ doing it," he says, a little sharply. "I--" He breaks off when his phone goes off, buzzing in his pocket. He pulls it out to scan Combeferre's message.

"Uh-oh," he murmurs.

"Everything okay?"

Enjolras forces himself to nod. "Yeah, it's fine. Combeferre's mom was in Haiti visiting family, and she was supposed to go straight back to Montreal, but the flight got rerouted to JFK because of the storms. She's going to be spending the night with us."

"And that's bad? Have you got mother-in-law troubles?" Grantaire asks, with an unseemly edge of glee.

Enjolras shakes his head. "She hates me."

"How can she hate you? I don't hate you, and you put me in jail. _Twice_."

"All right, hate's a strong term. But she's never really liked me."

"Why not?"

This is not remotely any of Grantaire's business, but Enjolras finds himself explaining anyway. "It's just...okay. Combeferre's mother moved from Haiti to Montreal just before Combeferre was born. She doesn't speak a lot of English, just French. Only her French is Haitian and Canadian, and Combeferre's is mostly Canadian with a little bit of Haitian...and I spent four years in Paris when I was a kid, because my mother worked in the US Embassy there."

"Ah."

"So I don't always understand Marie, and she thinks I'm being _intentionally_ obtuse and that my accent is appallingly thick and also pretentious."

"You poor thing," Grantaire says, still smiling.

"Your schadenfreude is not one of your more appealing characteristics."

"Implying that I _have_ appealing characteristics? Do tell."

" _Drop it_ , Grantaire," Enjolras mutters, and he tries not to focus on how stressful his evening is going to be.

 

 

It's almost enough to make him invent an excuse to work late, just to put off the awkwardness, but delaying it will only make everything worse. Plus, Grantaire has been looking at the clock every thirty seconds since four-thirty.

At two after six, Enjolras picks up his keys. "All right, let's go."

He drops Grantaire off and forces himself not to take any number of detours on the way back home.

When he opens the door, Marie is already there, sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea. Her graying black hair is pulled back severely at the nape of her neck.

Combeferre is nowhere to be found. "Hello," Enjolras says in French. "How was your flight?"

"Miserable," she says, but what had he expected? They had to reroute because of storms, so it can't have been a comfortable flight. Not his best opening gambit.

"I'm sorry to hear it. Did Combeferre pick you up at the airport?"

"He did," she says, smiling. "We had a lovely talk on the way back."

"Great." _Then where did he go_? Enjolras wants to ask, because being alone with his mother-in-law feels like standing in the principal's office, waiting to be suspended. Fortunately, Combeferre comes down the stairs.

"Hey, Enje." He presses a kiss to Enjolras' cheek. "The guest room is all ready, Mom," he adds. "If you want to rest for a while?"

She shakes her head. "No. When I close my eyes I still feel like I'm bouncing around in the plane."

"That must have been awful," Enjolras ventures.

She frowns. "I beg your pardon?"

Enjolras repeats himself, a little more slowly.

"It was," she says simply.

"Can we get you anything?"

She holds up the cup of tea. "No, thank you, it's taken care of."

"I thought we'd have dinner in a little while," Combeferre says. "Unless you're really hungry now?"

"No, I'm fine," Enjolras replies, hoping that his smile doesn't look as stiff as it feels. The sofa has room for three, but he doesn't want to crowd Marie, so he sits down in the armchair tucked into the corner, and a grim silence falls. Combeferre is giving him a prodding look, but Enjolras doesn't know what he's supposed to say.

The doorbell rings. Combeferre and Enjolras exchange a startled look, and Enjolras gets up to answer it. He glances through the peep-hole before he slides the chain off. "Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me," he mutters. He pushes the chain off and yanks open the door.

Grantaire is standing on the porch with a covered dish in his hands.

"What are you _doing_ here?"

"I brought a casserole."

As answers go, it's just about the least helpful one he could have given. "Since when do you cook?" Enjolras asks, switching to English. It doesn't escape him that Grantaire understood his first question, which had still been in French--but he can't say he's surprised.

"Since I painted a still life for Sister's housekeeper," Grantaire replies. "I said I _brought_ you a casserole. I never said I made it."

"Why?"

Grantaire just rolls his eyes and nudges past Enjolras into the house. "This thing is still hot, where can I put it?"

"In the kitchen," Enjolras sighs, resigning himself to disaster. He takes the dish from Grantaire and marches it into the kitchen.

By the time he gets back, Grantaire is talking to Marie, in perfect, Canadian-accented French. And she's _smiling_.

"No, no, I just wanted to bring the dish," Grantaire is saying. "I can't stay."

"Oh, but you _must_. Combeferre, make him stay."

"You really should, you know," he says obediently.

Grantaire looks over at Enjolras. "Well..."

"Stay," Enjolras says, and that's that.

The casserole, of course, is excellent, supplemented with a salad and a bottle of wine that Enjolras definitely hadn't been saving for a special occasion. He's glad for Grantaire's presence, not least because it takes some of the pressure off of Enjolras himself. He always feels like Marie is judging him and finding him wanting, but tonight she's talking about Montreal's art galleries with Grantaire, with an ease and enthusiasm that Enjolras has never seen before. Even Combeferre looks pleased, so it would be unfathomably rude of Enjolras to resent the easy flow of conversation--even if it does make him a little bit jealous.

After dinner, they decide to take the bottle of wine into the living room. Enjolras volunteers to clear the table, firmly refusing Marie's and then Combeferre's offers of help.

Grantaire slips back into the room without asking, though, and starts to gather up the dishes. "I've figured it out," he says triumphantly, thrusting a stack of salad bowls into Enjolras' arms.

"Figured what out?"

"She doesn't dislike you at all--she thinks that _you_ don't like _her_."

"What?"

"You barely talk to her, and you're all stiff and formal."

"I'm being _polite_ , she's a guest--"

"No, you're being cold. I know you're shy around her, and while that really is adorable, it makes you come off all distant and unwelcoming."

"Oh god." He's right. Marie thinks he doesn't like her, when the truth is just that he's _terrified_ of her. "How do I fix it?"

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "Fucking _smile_ or something, jeez. Talk a little slower. Ask her about her garden."

"She has a garden?"

Grantaire glares at him. "Yeah, you're definitely the worst son-in-law ever. Well, I've done all I can. It's up to you now."

He ducks back into the living room and says his farewells, and by the time Enjolras emerges from the kitchen the door is just closing behind him.

Combeferre holds out a glass of wine to him. Enjolras takes a deep breath, smiles, and sits down on the sofa beside them.

 

* * *

 

Javert arrives at the office the next morning, accompanied by a deadened hush throughout the department. Everyone pretends not to notice the icy calm that's settled over everything; Enjolras sends Grantaire down to help in Records. It'll keep him out of Javert's way, and besides--they can use the help, now that Le Cabuc is gone.

Enjolras himself manages to stay under Javert's radar for all of six hours. It's not quite two when Javert approaches his desk.

"Where's your CI?" he asks abruptly. "I have an assignment for him."

"For...him, sir?"

"I need him to pass a message to Thenardier for us."

Enjolras balks. "But Thenardier's in--"

"Yes. He's to go in undercover as a prison transfer, and then he's to pass along the information we give him. Send him to my office as soon as possible." He lays a folder on Enjolras' desk, and Enjolras flips it open automatically. The Bureau thinks Thenardier is communicating somehow with a small faction of Patron-Minette that still sympathizes with him. By planting false information and hoping that Thenardier passes it on, they'd have a decent chance at wiping out a handful of minor criminal enterprises.

There are pictures in the folder, too, with the dominant color being prison orange. Javert wants to send Grantaire undercover _here_ , inside a medium-security prison full of violent offenders--

"Sir?"

Javert is already turning away; he doesn't look pleased to have to turn back. "Yes?"

"With respect, I don't think Grantaire's the best person for this job."

He raises an eyebrow. "You know of another asset with the experience and skillset to blend into a prison population, Agent Enjolras?"

He knows it's just the bureaucracy talking, that _asset_ at least implies that Grantaire has value to the Bureau, but he hates the term anyway. Criminal or not, Grantaire's a _person_ , and objectifying terminology is just another way to distance yourself from the humanity of others--

He takes a deep breath. "No, sir, but I've been working closely with him for a few months now and I think, psychologically speaking, the worst thing you could do would be to put him back in a prison setting."

"It won't be as stringent as the last time; it isn't super-max."

"Yes, sir, and I think that makes it worse. The increased supervision in super-max means that there's less opportunity for violence among the inmates. Grantaire wouldn't know how to conduct himself in a medium-security facility. At best, he'll stick out, and at worst, he'll get hurt."

"But he'll do the job," Javert says calmly.

"Not if he's dead."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic, sir, I just have reservations about the assignment."

Javert turns cool eyes on him. "You're very protective of him. Are you certain you haven't become too close to this case to continue?"

"I'm protective of him because he's an asset to the Bureau," Enjolras replies in the same flat tone. "He's put us closer to Montparnasse than we've ever been. But he's not going to be much help if he gets _shivved_ in general population."

"The assignment stands," Javert says. "He'll report to the Bureau at ten a.m. tomorrow, and he will be transported to the prison from there."

Enjolras nods stiffly. "Yes, sir."

As soon as Javert walks away, Enjolras pulls his gun out of the desk drawer and goes down to the range in the basement. He can't remember the last time he felt this furious, this _helpless_. He hangs his jacket up and pours his frustration into the targets, round after round until the anger fades and the only thing left is something awfully close to fear. His arms are aching by the time he lays the gun down and takes off the protective gear.

How is he supposed to break this to Grantaire?

He doesn't bother to put his jacket back on. He goes upstairs and finds Grantaire sitting at his desk, looking over a completely different file--good.

"Hey," Grantaire says. "You disappeared. Where'd you go?"

"Just...downstairs. Have you had lunch?"

He gives Enjolras a concerned look. "Of course I have. You were _there_ \--"

"Great, let's go." Enjolras cuts him off, and Grantaire doesn't argue. They walk to an open-air café down the street and sit in a quiet, shaded corner of the patio.

"So what did Javert say to you?" Grantaire asks carefully.

"How do you know Javert said anything?"

"You don't usually spend an hour pouring your frustration out at shooting range targets."

Enjolras frowns. "How do you know I--"

"Your arms were too stiff to put your jacket on, and you smell like gunpowder."

"He..." Enjolras takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. He sits up, squaring his shoulders. "I have shitty news and there's no way to make it better, so I'm just going to say it, all right?"

"...All right."

"Javert wants to put you undercover in prison."

Grantaire shudders, just once.

"I tried to convince him it was a bad idea, that you weren't really suited for this type of undercover, but he didn't give us a choice. He was about five seconds away from sacking me."

"Why?"

"Because I was trying to defend you."

"What did he say?"

"That you were an 'asset' and that he could do as he pleased with you, basically. The implication was that if you didn't want the case then you'd be welcome to return to prison to finish out your sentence there." _And he implied that I was too close to you to do the job_ , he adds silently. It wouldn't hurt so much if he didn't have the sneaking suspicion that Javert is right.

"I can do it," Grantaire says.

"Can you? Because if you can't, we can find a way out of it."

"How? You just said Javert was ready to fire you for insubordination. You can't fight this--or you can, but you can't win."

"I know," Enjolras mutters, but he hates letting Javert throw his weight around like this.

Grantaire doesn't say anything. First for a minute, then two, then five--the longest stretch of silence Enjolras has ever heard from him.

"Are you okay?" he ventures. "You've been a little quiet today."

"What, before or after you told me I was going undercover in prison?"

"Before," Enjolras replies after a pause. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah, I've just been...well, thinking. You know how _lucky_ Combeferre is, to have a mother like Marie? To have family that loves him and worries about him and is--good to him?"

"I'm aware." Enjolras doesn't know anything about Grantaire's life before he ended up on the FBI's radar-- _nothing_. He's dying to know more, but he doesn't want to push.

Grantaire sighs. "My dad was a cop, you know."

"A _cop_?" Enjolras echoes. He can't quite help smiling, but Grantaire doesn't return the expression.

"Yeah, but not one of the good ones. He worked for the DEA for a while, and he skimmed drugs--he'd report a take a few kilos short, and then sell the rest off himself. The DEA never figured it out. Probably would have gone on like that forever, except a deal went wrong and he got shot, when I was twelve."

"Jesus." No wonder Grantaire doesn't like guns.

"You may not know this, but you don't get survivor benefits when your dad dies selling stolen drugs on the street. So there was just me and what my dad had in the bank--my mother left when I was a kid, by the way. I don't want to pour on the tragedy or anything, but there it is. Anyway, you know what comes next."

"Foster care," Enjolras says.

"Yeah. Don't get me wrong, there are some good people out there, and they tried. But by that point, _I_ wasn't really 'good people,' you know? I figured larceny was kind of in my bloodline, so I might as well see if I had any aptitude for it. It started out simple--picking pockets in a crowd, that kind of thing. But I was _good_ , and I moved on to bigger things. The trouble is, all the best cons need a partner to run them right, and I wasn't exactly ready to trust anyone else with half my take."

"Which is where Monty comes in," Enjolras says.

"More or less."

"If we get to the end of this story and I find out you're cribbing from Charles Dickens..."

Grantaire laughs. "No, I'm no Oliver Twist. I did a couple of jobs for Monty, when he was still working for Thenardier. Small stuff, mostly. A couple of cat-burglar things, skimming knick-knacks from people who wouldn't miss them for ages, that sort of thing. A couple of two-man cons. All long past the statute of limitations, by the way, just in case you're wondering."

"Drugs?"

Grantaire's face goes fierce, just for a moment. " _Fuck you_ , Enjolras. It was never drugs, and it was never guns. I know the stuff I did was against the law, but there are _lines_."

"Sorry," he says. "I know you wouldn't."

"Right. Anyway, you know the rest of the story. I made a pretty good name for myself, got away with a lot of shit, and then got really cocky and tried to forge US bonds. And then you caught me."

There's still a lot of detail missing, but it's more than Enjolras had ever hoped to know about Grantaire and his reasons for doing what he does. He already knows that none of this is going in the file when he gets back to work.

"So, the Matisse..."

Grantaire gives him an unconvincingly blank look. "What Matisse?"

The Matisse that vanished from private hands only to reappear at an auction three years later, mysteriously and flawlessly restored. "You know what I mean."

"Ask me under oath sometime."

Enjolras shakes his head, hoping he never has to. "Are you going to be okay?" he asks. "I can go to Valjean and--"

"And get him in trouble with Javert, too? No, leave it. I'll be fine."

"If you're sure..."

"I am," he says. It's convincing, but Enjolras already knows what a good actor he is.

"All right. Come on, I'll take you home."

Grantaire balks. "It's three-thirty."

"Yeah, and you're going to be on the clock for the next several days, twenty-four hours a day. If Javert has a problem with you skipping out a couple of hours early, he can talk to me."

He leaves Grantaire at Sister's and goes back to work. His arms are still protesting his hour at the firing range; he'll be lucky if he can move them in the morning. He barely gets anything done for the rest of the day, staring listlessly at files and watching the cursor blink on and off at the head of an empty report.

He goes home and sleeps terribly, probably waking Combeferre half a dozen times. He hasn't yet had the heart to tell Combeferre about Grantaire's latest case.

In the morning, he waits in front of Sister's house for ten minutes, increasingly worried that Grantaire has decided to do something absurd rather than go through with the job. When he rings the bell, the housekeeper informs him that Grantaire isn't there.

"He left already," she says. "With an older gentleman. He had an FBI badge, I thought you knew..."

Enjolras thanks her and turns away. An older gentleman with a badge--it's either Valjean or Javert. He hopes it was Valjean. Javert might have taken him off to prison already, without stopping at the Bureau. Enjolras doesn't want to think too hard about why the idea of not seeing Grantaire before he leaves is so troubling to him.

It must have been Valjean, though, because when Enjolras steps off the elevator he sees Grantaire sitting in Valjean's office. He's already wearing a bright orange prison jumpsuit, and Enjolras' stomach drops at the sight. He taps on the open doorway, and Valjean looks up. "Ah, Enjolras, good. I need to step out for a moment--will you keep an eye on him?" he asks, altogether too casually.

Without waiting for an answer, he leaves the office and closes the door behind him. The walls are mostly glass, so it isn't like he's hiding anything, but at least they can talk without risking Javert overhearing.

"You still doing okay?"

Grantaire shrugs. "Yeah, sure."

"You know the message you're supposed to pass on?"

"Yeah."

"Word for word?"

"I've _got it_ , Enjolras. Relax."

"I am relaxed," he huffs.

Grantaire smiles faintly. "No, you're not, you're worse than I am. You're going to spend the next week pacing a hole in the floor, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not."

"Uh-huh." His dour expression turns even more miserable. "You know what the worst part is, though?"

Enjolras frowns. "What?"

"I look terrible in orange."

Enjolras musters a smile for him, because Grantaire deserves some kind of reassurance. "You look fine."

"You're just saying that."

"Shut up."

Valjean taps on the office door and sticks his head inside. "Javert's waiting for you," he says. "I'll take you downstairs when you're ready." He closes the door again.

Grantaire stands up. "Better not keep him waiting, or he'll put me back in jail for real."

"Be careful, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah."

Enjolras stands up and catches him in an awkward one-armed hug. He uses his free hand to press a pack of cigarettes into Grantaire's palm. "In case of emergency," he whispers.

Grantaire draws back, wide-eyed, and the cigarettes vanish. "Thanks," he says. "See you around." Then he turns around and walks out of the office, and he doesn't look back.

Enjolras doesn't even bother to leave Valjean's office; he just waits there until Valjean comes back upstairs. Valjean, for his part, doesn't look surprised to see him there.

You saw him off?" Enjolras asks.

"I did."

"Sir, I was wondering if--"

He shakes his head. "Visitors will draw attention and make Grantaire's work more difficult--more dangerous, even. You know that."

"I know. I just...I don't like it."

"It's not my favorite case, either. But I've asked a guard to keep an eye on him."

Enjolras looks up. "Really?"

"You think I'd really let one of my people go in without back-up?"

Javert was planning to do just that; Enjolras should have known that Valjean would have a plan of his own. A little bit of the tension leaves his shoulders. "Thank you, sir."

"We take care of our own," he says firmly. "Now go find some work to do."

 

* * *

 

The ensuing week is a disaster. He doesn't hear a word about Grantaire's progress, which is probably good news, but the radio silence is driving him out of his mind. His tension is even bleeding over to Combeferre, and neither one of them sleeps well.

"I know _you_ can't go and visit him, but maybe I could..." Combeferre ventures on the fourth night. It's past two, and neither one of them has slept for more than fifteen minutes.

Enjolras shakes his head, unseen in the darkness. "It wouldn't be safe for him--or for you, if someone inside gets released and recognizes you. Valjean has someone keeping an eye on him, I just hate _not knowing_."

"Well, now you know how _I_ feel whenever you're out on a case," Combeferre replies, a little self-satisfied.

"Don't act like you're not worried about him, too."

"Of course I'm worried. I'm just _used_ to worrying, so it isn't like it's out of my way."

Enjolras can hear the wry exhaustion in his voice; being married to an FBI agent isn't exactly an easy thing. He turns over and settles a hand on Combeferre's hip. "He'll be okay," he says, with more confidence than he feels.

"I know." Combeferre ducks his head to brush his lips against Enjolras'. "Go to sleep," he says.

Enjolras huffs out a quiet laugh. "You first."

 

* * *

 

Three days later, he gets a text message at his desk. He opens it and finds a message from Eponine.

_overheard vj on the phone. op's over, jailbird's on his way_.

Enjolras' heart leaps, and the morning's productivity is shot. Every time the elevator door opens he looks up, expecting to find Grantaire standing there. He needs to see Grantaire himself, to really _know_ that he's all right, and that's an urge he doesn't want to consider too closely.

What he gets is barely a glimpse--Grantaire is flanked by Valjean and Javert, and he's not much more than a hint of curls and prison orange between them as they walk down the hallway and vanish into a meeting room.

_Debriefing_. That's almost worse than everything else. Prison's dangerous, Enjolras has no illusions on that score, but he thinks that Javert might be even more dangerous, where Grantaire is concerned. Enjolras knows that there are things Grantaire hasn't told him, and if Javert can ferret them out...

Grantaire comes out of the room half an hour later. He looks tired--paler than usual, and there are shadows under his eyes--but he's moving fine, and there aren't any bruises that Enjolras can see. The anklet is back on.

"Are you okay?" he asks. His voice is steady.

Grantaire nods. "I just..."

"What? What do you need?"

"Clothes. I need. Real. Clothes."

Enjolras takes a long lunch and drives him back to Sister's. He waits at the kitchen table with a Dick Francis paperback while Grantaire takes a twenty-minute shower. When he emerges, he's wearing one of his suits and looking much more comfortable in his own skin.

Enjolras frowns. "You don't have to go back to work today. Put on a pair of jeans, paint for a while, and get some sleep."

"Are you kidding me? Javert will send me back for good if he catches me playing hooky. Just stop on the way back for a Coke or something, and I'll be fine."

Enjolras thinks about arguing the point, but he's not prepared to say what Javert would or wouldn't do, if he felt that Grantaire wasn't taking his work seriously enough. "All right, then."

They walk to a market a couple of blocks from Sister's place. Yes, there are vending machines at the Bureau, but he's not in a particular hurry anymore, and as long as Grantaire's in his custody, any trouble from Javert will fall on him instead of Grantaire.

Grantaire takes his time picking a drink and a granola bar, and on the way up to the counter they pass a rack of magazines. Enjolras walks another ten feet before he realizes Grantaire isn't behind him anymore.

"Oh my god," he hears, and he turns around.

"What?"

"Oh my _god_ ," Grantaire repeats, staring at something Enjolras can't see from his vantage point.

"What's going on?" He can't think of any major events that have happened over the last week, so he isn't sure what's drawn Grantaire's attention.

"The Fashion Week thing," Grantaire says. "What happened to the memory card?"

"We turned it over to the magazine after the photographer confessed. Why does it--no."

Grantaire plucks a magazine from the rack and holds it up. There's no mistaking the person on the cover.

"But--I never even signed a _release_ ," Enjolras says, dismayed.

Grantaire ignores him and gleefully opens the magazine up to the six-page spread inside. "Are you _sure_ you want to be an FBI agent?" he asks, examining the photos. "Because you've got potential. Of course, you'd need a good agent, but I've got the time, and I think I could be happy with a forty-percent cut--that's pretty fair, don't you think?"

"Please shut up." Enjolras wonders if it's economically feasible to buy out an entire run of a magazine. It's a high-fashion publication, probably no more than twenty, thirty thousand subscriptions, and at--Jesus--twelve dollars an issue, that's well beyond what's sitting in his 401k right now.

He's so distracted by the calculations that he almost doesn't notice Grantaire walking up to the cash register, with something that looks suspiciously like a _skip_ in his step.

"You're not going to buy that," Enjolras says, more out of wishful thinking than any real hope that it's true.

"Are you kidding? Eponine is going to _love_ this."

He's not wrong. Eponine's delighted squeak is without a doubt the least dignified sound he's ever heard from her, and when he finally retreats to his desk, she's already on her way to find a scanner. At least he has a quiet evening to look forward to.

 

 

But he knows all hope is lost the moment he steps inside the door. Combeferre's wearing a bright _I-can't-keep-a-secret_ smile.

Enjolras sighs. "Who told you?"

"Courfeyrac. He sent me a cover scan when his copy came in today."

Right. Because of course Courfeyrac would have a subscription to a high-fashion men's magazine.

"You look beautiful."

Enjolras rolls his eyes and wonders if his face is just going to stay red for the rest of his life. " _Thanks_ ," he mutters.

"Not that you aren't _always_ beautiful, but those pictures are incredible. --Oh, and Courfeyrac wants you to call him."

Enjolras groans. He's had enough teasing from the rest of his division to last a year, and the last thing he needs right now is the round of laughter that's going to come from his friends, as well.

But putting it off is only going to make things worse, so he drops down onto the sofa and picks up his phone.

Courfeyrac doesn't even say hello. "What the _hell_ , man, did you just become a model and not _tell_ anybody?"

"That's not what happened. It was an undercover for the Bureau, and they must have taken the proofs from the memory card after we got the photographer on fraud and trademark infringement."

"Did they pay you?"

"I think I would have noticed if they had."

"Did you even sign a release?"

"Not... _exactly_..."

Courfeyrac makes a wheezing, sputtery sound. "Oh my god. Oh my _god_ , as your lawyer I am advising you to sue the fuck out of these assholes. They can't just take your image without paying you or securing a release. _Please_ can I sue them?"

"Courfeyrac..."

"Dude. They _owe you_."

"Okay. You can send them a threatening letter, or whatever it is you do right before you sue somebody."

"And as your friend I have to say, just-- _damn_. Congratulations on winning the genetic lottery." He hangs up before Enjolras can figure out how to respond.

 

* * *

 

A check for five thousand dollars appears in his mailbox three weeks later, with a typed letter of apology.

Enjolras decides to buy Courfeyrac a very nice Christmas present.


	7. June

"How hard is it to remember to _set the alarm_?" Enjolras snaps. He's forty-five minutes behind schedule now, and he's prioritizing. No time for breakfast, or a shave, and a shower's non-negotiable, which means coffee is out of the question.

"I must have turned it off instead of on last night. I'm sorr--"

"This is why I used to check. And you got _mad_ at me for checking, so I stopped."

"I did not get mad at you. I just felt like you didn't trust me."

"And look where we are now," Enjolras mutters.

"Aren't you overreacting just a little?"

"I was supposed to get Grantaire _fifteen minutes ago_."

"Well, he's not going to run off just because you're a little late."

"It _looks_ bad. It undermines my authority--"

"Right, your _authority_ ," Combeferre says bitterly. "Because you have _so_ much authority over him. Sometimes I wonder which one of you is really in charge."

Enjolras stops dead in the middle of a desperate hunt for socks. "Excuse me?"

"Where is it written that you have to pick him up? He's a big boy--tell him to find his _own_ way to work. You're not a chauffeur."

Enjolras rolls his eyes and slams the bathroom door. He takes the fastest shower on record, and when he steps out he brushes past Combeferre without a word and gets dressed.

He always waits for Combeferre to come downstairs, and he always kisses him before he leaves. It's a constant: no matter what they're doing, if the day is taking them in separate directions, Enjolras kisses Combeferre at the bottom of the stairs before he leaves.

But he's angry and frustrated and already twenty minutes late, so he just goes.

Grantaire's waiting outside when Enjolras pulls up in front of Sister's house, almost half an hour behind schedule. Grantaire opens the car door and then hesitates, like he's going to say something.

"Get in."

Grantaire climbs into the car and says nothing, and Enjolras is forced to admit that he is occasionally capable of showing an iota of discretion.

His silence lasts until about thirty seconds after they get to Enjolras' desk. "So did you spill your coffee this morning, or what? Because you seem kind of ten--"

"I'm _fine_ ," he snaps, in a tone that has never in all of history been used by anyone who is actually fine. But Grantaire lets it go, and Enjolras gets another fifteen minutes of blessed silence before Grantaire comes back-- _when had he left?_ \--and sets a cup of coffee on the edge of Enjolras' desk.

"What is that for?"

"I thought you might want some," Grantaire offers.

"Coffee isn't the problem."

"That doesn't mean it's not the solution."

Enjolras sighs and takes a scalding sip of espresso. "I had a fight with Combeferre this morning," he mutters. "He always sets the alarm when we go to bed. _Always_. I used to check, but it pissed him off, like I didn't trust him to set it, and this time he _forgot to set it_. And we both woke up late, and I...said some stuff."

"Did you make up?"

"No. There wasn't any time. I just left to get you."

"Harsh."

"Oh, fuck off," Enjolras growls. "I was too angry to apologize. If I'd tried, it would have been a half-assed thing, and it would have made everything worse, trust me. I'll call him at lunch. I should be able to be civil by then."

Grantaire mercifully drops the subject, and Enjolras stumbles through a couple of reports. Less than half of his mind is on the task at hand, so it's slow going, to say the least.

Halfway through the second hour, Enjolras' phone rings. He pulls it out and frowns at the number--it isn't anyone in his contacts. "Hello?"

"Is this Enjolras?" a warm, elderly voice asks.

"Yes, it is. Can I help you?"

"This is Charlotte Myriel, at the library. I was calling to ask if you know where Combeferre is today."

Enjolras frowns. "He...isn't there?"

"No, I'm afraid he hasn't come in. I tried calling him, but there was no answer."

Enjolras takes a deep breath to counter the sudden speeding of his heart. "I--let me see if I can track him down for you." He hangs up the phone and speed-dials Combeferre, willing his hands not to shake as he raises the phone to his ear.

"Pick up the phone," he mutters, counting the rings on the other end of the line. "Damn it, _pick up the phone_."

Across the desk, Grantaire frowns, but Enjolras doesn't have time to explain. The call goes to voicemail, so he dials the landline at the house, the one they keep for emergencies, but he gives up after half a dozen rings. If Combeferre was anywhere in the house, he would have answered the phone. Calling the emergency line trumps any fight.

He's sure there are perfectly logical, harmless reasons for Combeferre to have skipped work and gone silent. He just can't think of any right now.

He picks up the office phone and calls Eponine's desk.

"Hey. What can I do for you?" she asks.

"Can you, uh...can you have Transit send over an accident list for this morning? Anything involving a cab or--or a pedestrian. Yeah. Thanks. And get the hospital records, see if they've had any, uh, black male John Does come in over the last two hours."

"Sure," she says, sounding concerned. "What--"

"Just do it. Please."

He hangs up the phone, struggling to keep his breaths slow and even.

" _Enjolras_. What's wrong?" Grantaire asks, in the tone of someone who's asked the same thing three times without being heard.

"Combeferre didn't show up at work this morning. And he's not answering his phone, or the phone at the house. I mean, we had a fight, but it wasn't so bad he'd leave _town_. But I can't get in touch with him."

"That doesn't mean there's been an accident."

"I just need to rule it out. I--" Enjolras breaks off.

"What?"

"I didn't kiss him this morning," he says, his voice very small. "I always kiss him, but I was late and pissed off, and I just... _left_. And what if I never--"

"Don't," Grantaire says gently. "This isn't productive. This is the _opposite_ of productive. There's probably a really simple explanation and when he calls you back you're going to laugh about it."

Enjolras opens the file the Eponine emails him ten minutes later, but he finds he can't quite bring himself to look at it. Grantaire nudges him out of the chair and runs through the file himself.

"Nobody matching Combeferre's description," he reports, and a tiny bit of the stress leaves Enjolras' shoulders. "Why don't you take an early lunch and go home, see if he's at the house? I'll sit here at your desk and pretend to be you."

Enjolras lifts his coat from the back of the chair. "Yeah, I'll do that. If he calls the office line, have him call my cell right away, okay? I'll--"

The cell phone in his hand buzzes. Enjolras holds his breath and looks at the ID.

 _Combeferre_. He slumps down in the office chair that actually belongs to Grantaire, and he answers the phone. His voice shakes with relief. "Where _are_ you? They said you weren't at work, and--"

"Hello." The voice on the other end of the line isn't Combeferre's. A switch flips in Enjolras' mind, and ingrained reflex makes him pull the phone away from his ear long enough to press the voice recorder.

"Who is this?" he asks. His voice sounds calm and alien to his own ears.

"Your associate is in possession of something we want."

"And what is that?"

"A ring. He'll know the one. When we get the ring, you can have your husband back."

Enjolras takes a deep breath and focuses on FBI procedure. Keep them talking, get all the information he can. Find out their demands. Obtain proof of life. "I want to talk to him. You don't get anything until I know he's all right."

Grantaire's eyes go wide and sharp; even though he's only listening to half a conversation, demanding proof of life never means anything good. Enjolras waits while the phone is handed over to someone else.

"Combeferre?"

"Hi," he says, and his voice is tinny and far-away. Enjolras' free hand curls into a fist, and Grantaire reaches out to cover his hand with his own. It's grounding, somehow. When Enjolras draws a breath to speak, it's steady.

"Are you hurt?"

"I-I'm fine. Just give th-them what they want, okay? W-whatever it is. Then they'll l-let me go."

"Of course. We'll get you out of there, I promise."

"I love you," Combeferre says quickly.

"I love you too," Enjolras replies, but then it's the flat, menacing voice of the kidnapper, and he can't be sure that Combeferre heard him.

"You have one hour. We'll be in contact." The call ends. Enjolras closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Enjolras? What happened?"

"Combeferre's been kidnapped." He's amazed, really, that his voice is so calm. He sets the phone on the desk and plays back the recording so that Grantaire can hear it, too.

When he hears the first quiver in Combeferre's voice, he relaxes just a little.

Grantaire eyes him suspiciously. "There's a code in it, isn't there?" he asks. "There's no way you could be this calm if there wasn't a code in there."

"The catches in his voice. A catch on the first word of the first sentence means he's okay. On the second would mean he was hurt, but not badly, and the third would mean...worse than that. That he wouldn't be able to walk out of there on his own. The rest of the sentences give a little more detail."

"Why not have code words?"

"Because some kidnappers make you keep to a script, or make you tell the person on the other end of the line what their demands are. This way, as long as they let him speak, we can find out what's going on."

Grantaire nods. "You were planning for something like this."

"I was _expecting_ it to be the other way around," Enjolras says darkly. "If I got kidnapped, Combeferre would be able to relay more information to the Bureau. It should be _me_."

"Recriminations aren't really helpful at this juncture," Grantaire says. "Go back to the code. What else does it tell you?"

Enjolras steels himself and plays the recording one more time, just to be sure. "He's all right, he's bound, they have guns, and they're stationary--for the moment, anyway."

"You got _all of that_ out of what, fifteen words?"

He smiles tightly. "Luckily I married someone _much_ smarter than I am."

"Can you trace the phone to find out where he is?"

"It's doubtful. You can simulate a Faraday cage with a pair of static bags and a cookie tin. We'll try it, but I'm not going to hope for results."

"So what's the plan?"

"Play along to get more information, then get Combeferre out of there while we round up the captors. Do you know the ring they're talking about?"

Grantaire nods. "That was Florian on the phone. You can _hear_ the broken nose when he talks. He contracted me to...obtain the ring, but I weighed my options and decided that keeping it would be much more lucrative than taking the measly fifty grand he was offering me. _Fifty grand_ , can you believe it?"

"Do you have the ring?"

He hesitates on the verge of an answer.

"Look, full immunity, okay? I don't care if you've got the fucking Mona Lisa in a storage locker as long as you've got the ring, too."

" _I_ don't have the Mona Lisa," he says, with a peculiar emphasis.

Enjolras frowns. "No one has the Mona Lisa. I've _seen_ the Mona Lisa."

"You've seen _a_ Mona Lisa."

He opens his mouth to argue and then changes his mind. "Later. How fast can you get your hands on the ring?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Do it."

"Wait. Don't you have to, like...tell someone about this? You can't just go off on your own."

"Valjean's in DC for the week--he doesn't have to know. And if I told him, he'd just take me off the case. And then he'll put me in protective custody, because he knows it's the only way I'll stay out of it."

"But you can't do this by _yourself_."

"Watch me."

Grantaire stands up. "Fine, fine. I'll be right back."

He is right back--within five minutes. And he's not alone.

"I told Eponine," Grantaire says unnecessarily, standing next to her looking absolutely unashamed.

" _Thanks_ , Grantaire."

"Combeferre will kill you if he finds out you didn't take backup, and you know it."

Enjolras doesn't dignify that with a response, which is tantamount to an agreement, anyway.

Eponine clears her throat. "I'll put Communications to work on tracing the call--I don't know how far they'll get, but they should be able to give us a general area, if nothing else. We'll monitor your phone for when they call again, and when they give us the location we'll send a team out to--"

He startles at that. "What? No. I'm going."

"Aren't you a little too close to--"

The glare he turns on Eponine would have frozen the Hudson in its tracks.

"All right," she says. "But we're going to have to go through the standard missing-persons stuff, okay? So I'm going to ask you some questions." She sits down in Grantaire's usual seat at the corner of Enjolras' desk and flips open a notebook. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

"What was he wearing when you saw him last?"

 _He wasn't_. They'd been arguing from the moment they woke up, and then Enjolras had left the house in a huff before Combeferre had come downstairs. "I didn't see what he was wearing--he was still in the shower when I left this morning."

"Any physical conditions that might complicate a rescue?"

"No."  

"Mental health issues that might do the same?"

"No."

Eponine bites her lip, and Enjolras knows what's coming. "Does he have any identifying markings? Scars, tattoos, birthmarks, dental work?"

In case they have to identify his body. Enjolras forces himself to take a slow, deep breath before he answers the question. "Three small scars on his right knee from surgery a couple of years back. And one at the base of his left thumb, because he can't be trusted with a damn kitchen knife." The protest disaster from a couple of years ago didn't leave any visible damage, just a couple of cracked ribs and an ankle that always lets him know when it's going to rain. "No dental work. He never even needed braces when he was a kid."

Eponine nods. "Okay. That should be enough to work with. We'll monitor your phone for when he calls back--anything you hear, we'll hear. Keep them talking for as long as possible, okay? If we can get even a partial trace, it'll help us focus our efforts."

"Yeah."

"In the meantime, we can mock up a fake ring--"

"No need," Grantaire interrupts. "I'll get you the real thing. Just give me a chisel, and take me to the park."

" _What_?"

The park in question is close enough that it's faster to walk than to drive, and the sun is incongruously bright and warm. The chisel and mallet that Grantaire had requested from the evidence lock-up clank a little in his pocket as they walk. Enjolras lets him lead the way, too wrapped up in his own fears to worry much about this part of the excursion. He's waiting for his phone to ring, waiting to hear from the kidnappers again...

It's crowded, now that school is out, but Grantaire leads him to a bronze statue half-hidden by a stand of trees. It's a Liberty-type figure, with one hand outstretched to beckon or to guide. Enjolras looks around, but there are no convenient hiding places for a ring box. "Did you forget where it is?" he demands. They could call back at any moment, and if they find out that Grantaire doesn't have the ring...

"Relax. It's right where I left it." He points to a heavy-looking bronze ring on one of the statue's outspread fingers.

Enjolras stares. "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

Grantaire just grins and unpacks the tools. He smacks the blunt end of the chisel twice with the mallet, and the ring slides free. Enjolras can see the sheen of gold on the inside when Grantaire hands it to him.

"It's just a coating that simulates bronze. Ten minutes in a good jewelry bath will have it cleaned up, as good as new."

"You hid the ring on a _statue_?"

Grantaire gives him a cheeky sort of grin, and despite everything Enjolras has to admire the audacity.

"You're unbelievable," he complains. "Come on, let's get back."

 

 

He's right about the jewelry bath. Ten minutes later, the fake bronze coating has melted away, and Enjolras is holding a heavy emerald-and-gold ring in his palm 

"Where did it come from?"

Grantaire hesitates.

"Full immunity," Enjolras says wearily.

"Private collection. Nobody you'd know."

"How much is it worth?"

He shrugs. "Two, two and a half?"

" _Million_?"

"Look, if it wasn't expensive, it wouldn't be worth stealing, right?"

"You left a two-million-dollar ring on a _statue_ in a _park_ for _four years_?"

"I only intended to leave it on the statue for a couple of weeks. Then _you_ happened, and...well, it was still there. That's the important part."

Enjolras nods, and his phone rings again. His heart immediately starts pounding, and he signals Eponine before he answers.

"Hello?"

"You have the ring?"

"Yes."

"Drive out to the harbor. Come alone. We'll send you further instructions as you go." The call ends, and Enjolras relays the kidnappers' message.

"They don't want to give us time to set up a perimeter," Eponine says.

"I know."

"So we'll bring the perimeter with us. We'll keep back from you, but we'll stay in radio contact. And I'll get a couple of patrol boats out into the harbor, in case they try to sneak out."

Enjolras nods, grateful that Eponine's taken charge of the situation. She's far and away the most level-headed among them right now.

"All right. You lead the way," she says, "and my team will follow."

Enjolras scoops up his keys, but Eponine balks when Grantaire makes to follow them.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Calling shotgun?"

"You don't need to be there. We have the ring. You should stay here."

"Moral support, then," Grantaire says. "Also, communications. You can't expect Enjolras to drive _and_ talk to the kidnappers _and_ pass all that information along to you guys, all at the same time. I'll be the liaison between him and your team."

She purses her lips, considering. "Fine. Let's go."

Ten minutes into the drive, Enjolras' phone rings with a text message from Combeferre's number. He hands the phone to Grantaire, who checks it. "They want you to drive up to a warehouse and drop off the ring. They say they’ll send Combeferre out after that."

Enjolras forces his fingers to loosen on the steering wheel. "Pass the word on to Eponine."

Grantaire relays the message, and Enjolras pulls the car to a stop in the empty warehouse parking lot. "Stay here," Enjolras says.

"Like hell."

"They told me to come alone," Enjolras says. "Wait. Here."

Grantaire sits back, and Enjolras calls Eponine. "Are you all in position?"

"We're good to go. I've got people in position on a couple of rooftops to your left and right. Try to leave us a clear shot, okay? Just in case."

"Will do." Enjolras steps out of the car with the ring clenched in one fist. Thirty seconds later, the phone rings.

"I've got your ring," he says, without waiting for the kidnappers to say anything.

"Good. You should leave it on the ground and walk away."

"Not until I see Combeferre." He starts walking forward, very slowly. "Just send him out. The ring is right here, see?" He holds his hand out, palm flat. "Send him out," he repeats.

"You should have come alone," Florian says, and then the line goes dead.

He's fifty yards from the warehouse when the windows blow out. Instinct makes him duck down and shield his face from the shards of glass, and when he looks up the whole warehouse is in flames.

 _Combeferre_. Enjolras runs for the door of the warehouse, but he doesn't make it five steps before someone catches him and hauls him back. It's Eponine, it has to be her, and when it comes down to it he's stronger than she is. He tries to pull away, but she twists his wrist behind him so sharply that the pain drives him to his knees.

All he can think is that Combeferre is still inside, in the warehouse where flames are shooting up through the broken windows, and it's too late. Combeferre is gone, he's _gone_ , and Enjolras didn’t even kiss him this morning, didn't apologize, doesn't even know if Combeferre heard him say _I love you_.

Grantaire's kneeling in front of him, blocking the view of the burning warehouse. His hands are resting on either side of Enjolras' face, and he's shouting something that Enjolras can't understand. His ears are ringing and the smoke is blurring his vision, making his eyes sting and spark--

"He's all right. Enjolras, he's _all right_. Look." Grantaire points away, back over Enjolras' shoulder, and he stops fighting Eponine's grip long enough to turn around.

Combeferre is standing at the edge of the dock, surrounded by FBI agents. He's soaking wet and his glasses are gone. Someone says something to him, and he darts towards the burning warehouse, only to be held back by half a dozen agents.

"He thinks you went inside," Grantaire says. "Ep, let him go."

The instant her grip loosens, Enjolras is running, shoving his way through the crowd of agents to wrap his arms around Combeferre.

"Oh, thank God," he hears Combeferre mutter, and then Enjolras is being held so tightly he can scarcely breathe.

"I thought--" Enjolras can't even finish the sentence.

"I know. So did I."

He pulls back far enough to look Combeferre over for any sign of injury. "What happened?"

"They realized you'd brought reinforcements, so they set the building to blow and left in a speedboat."

"The Bureau has a patrol boat on the river," Enjolras mutters. "They won't get far."

"They were going to keep me for a bargaining chip, if they didn't catch you in the explosion." Combeferre trails off, and his grip on Enjolras' jacket tightens. "I got away from them, but when the warehouse blew I thought...I thought I was too late."

"How did you get away?"

He gives Enjolras a shaky smile. "Grantaire's party trick. I got the cuffs off and dove off the side of the boat. They couldn't shoot at me without drawing attention, so they just cut their losses and took off."

It could have gone wrong so easily. If they'd left Combeferre in the warehouse--if he hadn't known how to escape the handcuffs-- _if_...

"I'm sorry about this morning," Enjolras says, absurdly.

"So am I."

He closes his eyes and holds on to Combeferre for a moment longer. It's not strictly professional behavior, but he couldn't care less.

He doesn't open his eyes again until he can be sure they're not watery, and when he does he sees Grantaire standing at the edge of the group of agents, watching them. Enjolras nods, hoping that it conveys some small portion of his gratitude. He knows that Grantaire's primary contribution to the day's work--beyond supplying the ring--has been keeping him grounded.

There's an ambulance with the fire trucks putting out the blaze. Combeferre balks when he realizes that Enjolras is leading him towards it. "No, I'm fine, really--"

"Not negotiable," Enjolras says. "Just let them look you over, that's all I'm asking. Then we'll go home."

"Don't you have paperwork?" Combeferre asks skeptically.

"It can wait. Go."

Combeferre obediently climbs into the back of the ambulance to let the EMTs examine him. Enjolras stays close by, waiting until they tell him that Combeferre's fit to go. He gets the call from Eponine saying that the patrol boat has picked up their suspects, and the fire department is starting to get the warehouse blaze under control.

"How is he?" Grantaire asks.

"Fine, I think."

"How are _you_?"

"I'm all right." He takes a deep breath. "Grantaire...thank you. I know what you were doing today. You kept me from falling apart, and I appreciate that."

Grantaire shakes his head. "What else could I have done?"

"Still. Thank you."

"Sure. Now, about the ring," Grantaire begins.

"It goes back where it came from."

"And, um..."

"I told you--full immunity." The back door of the ambulance opens, and Combeferre steps out. "Excuse me."

 Before Enjolras can get them both in the car, Eponine intercepts them. "We need to go back and debrief him," she says.

"Can't it _wait_?" Enjolras mutters, knowing that it can't. The passage of time tends to dull or alter details in people's memory, and if he wants these people to go to jail, they'll need the most complete report they can assemble.

Combeferre drops his hand to his side and curls his fingers around Enjolras', very briefly. "I don't mind," he says.

"All right."

"We'll be as quick as we can," Eponine promises. "I'll meet you back at headquarters."

Neither one of them says much on the drive back. Enjolras knows that he shouldn't ask questions, because testimonies tend to mutate after they've been related a couple of times, and anyway--he's not sure he could get a sentence out through the tightness in his throat.

When Eponine leads Combeferre into one of the interview rooms, Enjolras follows, reluctant to let Combeferre out of his sight. Eponine gives him a look. "You might as well," she says. "You were involved, too."

They all sit down, and Eponine turns on the recorder and asks Combeferre to explain what happened, in his own words.

"Enjolras and I...argued, this morning," Combeferre says, half-smiling at Enjolras. "So I wasn't at my most observant, walking from the station to the library. I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary until they pressed the gun to my back."

Enjolras' fingers tighten into reflexive fists, and it's a long moment before he can loosen them again.

"They pushed me into a car and put handcuffs on me, and they drove me out to the harbor. They never...they never hurt me," he says. "It was all threats, what they'd do to me, or to Enjolras, if I didn't cooperate."

"Did they ever use their names?"

Combeferre shakes his head. "But they didn't blindfold me, which made me think...either they had an escape plan, or they weren't planning to let me go."

"So you can identify them, when we bring them in?"

"Yes," he says simply.

Eponine nods, and asks a few more standard questions. Enjolras finds his mind drifting, exhausted after the stress of the morning. He forces himself back into focus when Eponine tells them they can go, and that she'll be in touch if they need anything more from Combeferre.

 

* * *

 

Sleep is a long time in coming, for both of them. No matter how frequently Combeferre insists that he's all right, Enjolras can still almost feel the tension radiating off of him.

Well, now is as good a time as any.

"I'm giving my notice tomorrow morning."

Combeferre sits up. "What are you talking about?" He reaches over and turns on the lamp.

Enjolras flinches against the sudden light and pushes the covers back to sit against the headboard. "You heard me. I don't care if the job gets _me_ hurt, but what could have happened to you..." He shakes his head. "It's an unacceptable risk."

"But they'll send Grantaire back to prison."

"You could have _died_ today, and you're worried about Grantaire?"

"Someone has to be."

"Combeferre--"

"Look, today was bad. I know. I'm just not sure you've thought this through."

Guilt roils in Enjolras' stomach.

"You got into this because you could make a difference. You could _help_ people. I know you haven't forgotten that. If that means that some people will see me as a target, I'm willing to take the risk."

"What if _I'm_ not?" Enjolras snaps.

"Is this about today, or is it about the protest?"

Enjolras stays silent.

"Enjolras..."

"This is the second time you've gotten hurt because of something I pulled you into."

"Yeah, you really dragged me into that rally kicking and screaming."

He hadn't dragged Combeferre _into_ it, but he'd had to carry him away after they'd escaped the panicked crush of people. He'd been close enough to hear the snap of his ankle, but Combeferre had still been half-trampled before Enjolras could get to him. He can still remember the white-knuckled drive to the hospital with Combeferre curled in the back seat, his arms wrapped tight around his ribs and the awful stifled whimper whenever he took a breath.

"Enje, that was _years_ ago."

Six years or six minutes--it doesn't matter. He'll never be able to forget it, just like he'll always remember the shattering glass and the heat of the flames from the warehouse, and that awful, awful certainty that he was _too late_...

"You can't quit," Combeferre says. "The Bureau _needs_ you." He draws in a breath like he's going to say something more, and stops. It doesn't matter; Enjolras can hear the next sentence anyway. _Grantaire needs you_.

And he's right. Enjolras _knows_ he's right. He can't give up the work he's doing to keep Combeferre safe. Even if he could, Combeferre would never forgive him for it.

"All right," he says at last. He lies back down, curling close to Combeferre. "All right."


	8. July

Grantaire wakes up at two in the morning to someone pounding on his door.

At this hour, it's either Feuilly or Enjolras, and he's not particularly pleased at the thought of seeing either one of them right now. He pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and yanks open the door. 

"Oh my _god_ , do you have any idea what _time_ it is? Can't you wait until morn--"

It isn't Feuilly, and it isn't Enjolras. It's three people he doesn't recognize, all of them a head taller and fifty pounds heavier than he is. "Please don't hurt Sister," is all he can think to say. Then the largest of them pins Grantaire's arms behind his back, and someone pulls a black cloth bag over his head.

They hustle him down the stairs, so quickly that Grantaire doesn't think his feet touch the floor more than twice. Then there's a moment of warm, muggy night air and his bare feet scrape the concrete before he's stuffed into the back seat of a car.

Well, this is not good. This is one step above being shot in the head and left on Sister Simplice's rug. And the only reason it's a step up is that Sister won't have to pay the cleaning bill.

He forces down the panic by trying to memorize the route, but the stops and turns have him dizzy within minutes. It's a little comforting to know that the anklet will alert Enjolras when the river carries his body beyond his radius. Assuming he doesn't sink to the bottom, first.

The car stops, and Grantaire is half-pushed, half-dragged into an elevator. His stomach drops as they rise rapidly--twenty floors at least, if he had to guess. He's starting to feel marginally better about the situation, since it wouldn't make a whole lot of sense for them to murder him in a place where they'd have to move his body to dispose of it.

A door clicks open. One final shove to the small of his back, and the bag is pulled off his head. Grantaire squints in the relatively bright light of the room.

When his eyes adjust, he's looking at Montparnasse.

 _Fuck_. This is not good at all. He runs through his options, each of them worse than the last. Explanations, excuses, bluffs--none of them seem like sound strategies for leaving this room alive.

Nothing to lose, then. He drops into a chair without waiting for permission, sprawling with a casualness he doesn't feel. "Took you fucking long enough," he sighs.

"Excuse me?" Monty asks. He has a very good voice for his job, like a ripple of cold water.

"I've been waiting for you to make contact. People who come looking for you tend to end up dead, so I figured I'd just wait for you to come to me."

Monty looks irritated at the idea that Grantaire has been playing him. "You've been busy in the meantime, haven't you? Working for the Feds."

"It's slightly more entertaining than sitting in a prison cell. And I wanted to be sure you'd know where to find me, when you decided that you wanted me."

"Who says I want you?"

"You sent a bunch of people to kidnap me from my apartment in the middle of the night. I don't want to flatter myself, but it sounds like you want me pretty fucking bad."

"You put Claquesous in prison."

"You're damned right, I did," Grantaire counters. "Claquesous was a goddamn _liability_ and you know it. You look up 'stool pigeon' in the dictionary and you'd see his face. You're better off with him out of the way."

"Am I."

"You know you are. He was ambitious and stupid and a coward and I have no idea why you kept him around that long anyway."

Monty glares elegantly at him for just long enough to make Grantaire wonder how often he practices the expression every day. "Claquesous was very good friends with Thenardier," he says at last.

"Yeah, well maybe you ought to consider a new entrance exam for your inner circle."

"Thank you for the advice. Now, this is all very interesting, but the fact remains that you're working for my enemy, and I don't like that."

"Am I, though? Am I _really_?"

"If you have ulterior motives, you're certainly doing a good job of hiding them."

"Of course," Grantaire says. "Got to make it look good for the Feds, right? But there's a lot they don't know."

"Such as?"

Grantaire leans across the table. "I want in."

"What?"

"I want. In. On all of this."

"And I'm meant to take this on faith, am I?"

"Come on, Monty. You don't really think I've gone straight, do you?"

Monty flicks a glance down Grantaire's body and back. "I didn't find it particularly likely," he says.

"Find a way to get me out of the city, and I'm yours. Whatever you need me for--recon, forgery, acquisitions--I'll do it. All I'm asking is that you get me out...plus the customary ten-percent cut of any profits, obviously."

"Obviously." Monty eyes him. "As I recall, you used to have certain hang-ups about some of my enterprises."

"Not anymore."

"Hm." Monty considers him lazily. "It sounds almost too good to be true."

"I understand. What can I do to set your mind at ease?"

"Can you get me the kid?"

Grantaire frowns. "I'm sorry?"

"Thenardier's kid. Can you get to him?"

"No." Grantaire shakes his head, and hurries to explain. "That's WITSEC, not FBI. I don't have access to those files."

"Hm." Monty sits back. "There _is_ a certain other favor you could do for me. In fact, I think it will be easy for you--if everything you're telling me is true."

Grantaire nods. "Name it."

Montparnasse smiles.

 

 

Enjolras comes to pick him up at seven the next morning, and Grantaire spends half the morning desperately pretending that he's had more than an hour of sleep. He spends the other half trying to forget the gleam in Monty's eyes as he'd told Grantaire exactly what he'd need to do to win his way back into Monty's good graces.

Fortunately, Enjolras spends most of the morning on the phone, leaving Grantaire free to zone out as he chooses.

Enjolras finally hangs up the phone with far more than the necessary amount of force, and turns to Grantaire, _beaming_.

"Why in _god's name_ do you look so happy?" Grantaire demands. It's like staring at the sun.

"I've been working on something for a while, and it finally came through. That was the Marshals' office on the phone--if we can get Montparnasse, you're off the hook."

Grantaire's exhausted mind can't quite complete the necessary maneuvers to wrestle that sentence into some form of sense. "What?"

"If you can help us arrest Montparnasse--on a charge that sticks--they'll commute the extended sentence to time served."

"I'd be off the hook," Grantaire echoes. Free to go. No more anklet, no more radius, no more  _running_.

He has some decisions to make.

 

* * *

 

"You're in a good mood," Combeferre says.

Enjolras shrugs and kisses him. "It was a good day." His fingers hook in Combeferre's belt-loops, pulling him closer. "Come upstairs with me?"

Combeferre laughs, a breathy sound in his ear. "After you."

Enjolras leads him up the stairs and into their room, already tugging at the knot of his tie. Combeferre cheerfully crowds him back towards the bed, until Enjolras drops back onto it, and Combeferre can kneel over him for a kiss.

His lips travel from Enjolras' mouth to his cheek to his throat, and Enjolras closes his eyes. There's a teasing scrape of teeth just below his collarbone, and his breath shivers out of him in a sigh.

"Gran--"

Enjolras bites off the word before more than a syllable escapes, but it's too late. His eyes flash wide just in time to see Combeferre draw back a fraction of an inch.

Enjolras pulls away entirely, scrambling back against the headboard. Combeferre's frowning at him, like he's confused, and Enjolras closes his eyes so he won't have to see the moment when his expression tips over into betrayal.

His chest feels like it's collapsing into a black hole. He can't _breathe_.

The lamp clicks on, and Enjolras flinches.

"Are you okay?"

Enjolras looks up. "Am _I--_?"

"That was a stupid question. Of course you're not all right. Do you need a glass of water, or something?"

" _Combeferre_." The name sounds right in his mouth. It's _always_ been right, the only name, the only person he's ever needed.

"What's wrong?"

He laughs, high and tight on the edge of panic. "I said someone else's _name_ during _sex_. How can you ask me what's wrong?"

"Enjolras..."

"Will you give me a chance to fix this? I'll remove myself from his case, first thing Monday morning. I'll--take a leave, we can go somewhere and work this out. I don't--I don't know what's wrong with me, and I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry, I just--"

"You like him."

Enjolras buries his face in his hands. "Combeferre, _please_ don't--"

"I'm glad. I like him, too."

"You--what?"

"I like him, too." Combeferre smiles. "I've been thinking about bringing it up, actually, but I wasn't sure how you'd feel about it."

Enjolras is so confused he feels dizzy with it. "What are you talking about?"

"That night in the hallway, when I talked about kissing Grantaire and you said we shouldn't do that again. I thought it was because you didn't like the idea of me being attracted to Grantaire, so I dropped it."

"How could you think I didn't like the idea of it? I got off on you just _talking_ about it."

"I thought you'd reconsidered."

He'd _tried_ to reconsider--at the very least, he'd tried to convince himself that it was a bad idea. It hadn't stuck. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that it's fine if you're attracted to Grantaire, because I am, too. The question now is...what to do about it?"

"We're not going to do _anything_ about it, 'Ferre. We can't."

"Why not? Plenty of people manage stable three-way relationships."

"Most of them haven't arrested one of the members of said relationship."

"Oh, please. He _enjoyed_ being arrested by you."

Enjolras thinks briefly of the leather handcuffs in the nightstand, and then forces himself to focus again. "That isn't--it doesn't mean that he would want--"

"You could call him right now and ask him to join us, and he'd be here in fifteen minutes. You know he would."

Enjolras is almost sure that Combeferre is right, but he shakes his head. "We can't. It would be coercive--I have the authority to send him back to prison, and even though I'd _never_ abuse that, it couldn't be equal. Not yet."

"Not now, but later?"

"Yes," Enjolras says. "Once we get Montparnasse, and Grantaire is free to go...we can ask him, then."

Combeferre smiles and leans in to kiss him. "That sounds good. But what about now?"

"Now?" Enjolras considers. "I think we ought to explore the idea of just what you'd like to do with Grantaire." 

 

* * *

 

"Are you okay?" Grantaire asks the next morning.

"What? Yes, of course," Enjolras says. "Why?"

"No offense, but you're acting totally squirrely right now."

"I didn't sleep well, and I convinced the barista to put an extra shot of espresso in my coffee this morning." It's a plausible lie, and it sounds much better than _My husband and I talked about sleeping with you last night._

"Ah. So we shouldn't expect you to be able to shoot anything for a couple of hours."

"It would be greatly appreciated if we could avoid getting in a firefight today."

"Oh, okay. I'll reschedule, then."

"Reschedule?"

"I've been in touch with somebody in Patron-Minette," Grantaire says.

Enjolras looks up sharply. "What? Why haven't you said anything?"

"Because there wasn't anything to say, until now. But I know where Monty's going to be today, and what he's going to be doing."

"Go on," Enjolras says, keeping a firm rein on the wild excitement that's threatening to take him over. A real chance at Montparnasse, after all this time...

"He's supposed to be meeting up with a contact in an old parking garage. He's used it for meets before--I can take you there."

"A parking garage? Isn't that a little cliché?"

"Hey, I didn't set the meet."

"Who did? Who's he meeting with?"

"I don't know, but product is supposed to be changing hands. I don't know if it's drugs or guns or information, but if you catch him in the act of making a deal, your case is set. All we have to do is go in together and catch him."

Enjolras frowns. "Why together? Why do you have to be there at all?"

"Because if he sees _me_ there, I can probably play it off. If he sees you, he'll shoot you in the face."

That's true enough. Montparnasse has few enough reasons to keep Enjolras alive; given the situation, Enjolras wouldn't even be able to fault him for taking the shot. Still, this sounds awfully sudden...

"Enjolras. Have I ever steered you wrong before?"

He gives Grantaire a cutting look. "Phoenix? San Francisco? Cincinnati?"

"Since I started working with you," he amends.

Enjolras gives himself a moment to think it through. "I suppose you haven't."

"I'm willing to go in wired, if it'll help."

Enjolras considers. "It probably wouldn't hurt." He takes a deep breath. "Come on, let's go get you outfitted, and we'll get Valjean in on the plan."

"There's a plan?"

"There  _will_ be," Enjolras says. They have three hours; that ought to be long enough.

  

* * *

  

It's hot and stuffy in the underground garage. Enjolras ditches his tie in the car and unfastens the first few buttons of his shirt.

He leaves the jacket on, to hide the gun in his shoulder rig. Anyone with the slightest bit of sense will expect him to be armed, but there's no need to make it _obvious_.

There's a team waiting across the street, headed by Valjean with Eponine on communications. Grantaire's wired, but it won't transmit unless he hits a panic button in his pocket--he's concerned that Montparnasse might be sweeping the area for communications signals, and passive recording won't set off any alarms. Enjolras has a panic button too, to call for reinforcements. But if it comes to the point where they need reinforcements, he doubts anyone will be able to get to them in time.

Grantaire looks tense, which isn't surprising, considering that his liberty is staked on this arrest. If they catch Montparnasse here, they're set. If he spooks, he'll go to ground and it could be months before the Bureau gets another chance.

Enjolras checks his watch. The meet is scheduled for twelve-thirty, and it's just hit twelve-fifteen. There's no sign of anyone else in the garage. There's plenty of time to get into position, and no reason at all for Grantaire to look so nervous.

He _never_ looks nervous, not even when he ought to be terrified. Enjolras nudges him gently as they walk. "Hey. _Relax_."

Grantaire stops walking and turns to him with a wan smile. "Right, yeah."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. But, um, in case something goes wrong..."

"Nothing's going to go wrong," Enjolras says curtly, sighting the broken-down van they're going to be using as cover. They'll be able to see everything from there, behind dark-tinted windows.

"But in case it does. There's something I've been meaning to do for a long time," Grantaire says.

Enjolras half-turns to look at him. "What are you talking about?"

Grantaire kisses him. It's fierce and wild and sudden, a crush of his lips against Enjolras', and the only thing Enjolras can do is haul him close and kiss him back, curling one hand against the back of Grantaire's neck. It isn't how they'd planned this, but _oh_ \--it will do.

Then Grantaire pulls away, and Enjolras stagger-steps to find his balance. The first thing he sees is the bitten red of Grantaire's lips.

The second is his own gun in Grantaire's hand, safety off and pointed at Enjolras' chest. For a single heartbeat the world seems to twist on its axis, sliding out of alignment. Everything after that is sick, sinking despair.

"Grantaire, what are you doing?" He wants to be wrong. _Needs_ to be wrong.

"What do you _think_?"

"But you hate guns," Enjolras says blankly. _  
_

He laughs. "God, _tell_ me you didn't fall for it. Tell me you didn't fall for the whole 'reformed criminal with a crush' routine."

Enjolras has nothing to say. The panic button is in his pocket, but if he makes a move for it, he can't be sure Grantaire won't shoot. Whether or not he's been lying about his aversion to guns, at this distance, it would be hard for him to miss.

"No, of course you fell for it, because that's what you wanted, isn't it? You wanted it all to be real, and that's why it worked. I've met a lot of marks in my life, but I've never met anyone who _wanted_ to be conned as much as you."

Enjolras takes a half-step forward. "Just give me the gun. Please."

Grantaire shakes his head. "Get on your knees."

"Grantaire, don't do this."

He wiggles the gun a little. "You're not giving the orders anymore, asshole. On your knees."

There's nothing Enjolras can do but obey; at least it'll buy him a few more seconds. Something in his shirt pocket bumps against his chest when he kneels. It's small and heavy--his phone? He can't remember where he'd put his phone two minutes ago when the world made sense. But even if it is his phone, there's no way he can get to it without Grantaire noticing.

The barrel of the gun is rock-steady, its aim never shifting, but the fingers of Grantaire's free hand are tapping on his thigh--he's nervous, or he's signaling someone. Montparnasse? Has he been watching this whole farce from the beginning?

He needs a new tactic. Grantaire's played him from the start, but _everything_ can't be a lie. "What about Combeferre? You hate me, I understand that, but are you really going to do this to Combeferre?"

Grantaire laughs; it's a harsh, nasty sound. "Oh, _now_ you're worried about Combeferre? You weren't thinking about him before, were you? You kissed me, and you _enjoyed_ it. You want to talk about hurting Combeferre? I couldn't do any better than what you just did."

"In the grand scheme of things, I think killing me might do a little more damage." Just last night, they'd been planning to ask Grantaire to join them--and now _this_? How could they have been so wrong about him?

He's tried pleading, on his own behalf and on Combeferre's, and it had gotten him nowhere. He shifts tactics again, desperately, dredging up a sneer to cover the pounding of his heart. "Come on, Grantaire, we both know you're not going to pull that trig--"

The roar of the gun is impossibly loud in the garage, redoubling on itself as it echoes among the pillars.

The force of the bullet throws Enjolras down onto the concrete in a sprawl. His whole body goes instantly, horribly limp, his clenched fists falling open.

He falls with his face turned away, and Grantaire can't see his eyes. That seems like a mercy. It had to be done, but that doesn't mean he wants to see the result. He's always been a coward that way.

A sharp sound startles him. It repeats, resolving itself into slow applause coming from the direction of the stairwell.

"I really didn't think you had it in you," Montparnasse says, stepping out of the shadows where Grantaire had told him to hide.

The gun in his hand feels impossibly heavy; Grantaire lowers it to his side and pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket. "I want my two million dollars," he says flatly, starting to wipe down the gun.

"I know. It's all arranged."

"Good, then there's no reason to stick around." Grantaire lays the gun down beside Enjolras' body, still trying not to look at him. "Somebody is bound to have heard the shot, and there's even a tiny chance they might call the cops."

"We can handle cops," Monty says. "Just like you handled _him_. Single shot to the chest, while he was begging for his life...that was cold. I'm proud."

He slings an arm over Grantaire's shoulders, and Grantaire has to repress an urge to shake him off. "Things are going to be so _good_ with him out of the way," Monty says. "We can stop looking over our shoulders all the time, wondering if he's going to walk in with a SWAT team, brandishing a warrant. Our profits are going to grow _exponentially_. We'll be able to expand our operations--imagine it, all up and down the eastern seaboard..."

Grantaire nods. "Sounds great."

"It's just a shame you won't be there to share it," Monty says ruefully.

He stiffens and steps back. "What are you talking about? That was the deal, wasn't it? I get rid of him, and you give me two million dollars and a place in your organization."

"Yes, yes, that was the deal." But Monty has his own gun in hand now. "Loose ends, Grantaire. Things start to unravel, and--you know how it gets."

"But you _promised_."

"Of course I did."

This isn't how it was supposed to go. Grantaire's eyes dart towards Enjolras' body, behind Montparnasse, and then away. He needs to focus. Monty hasn't shot him yet, so he must want to talk first. The longer he talks, the longer Grantaire's likely to live. He swallows hard and tries again. "You really don't need to do this. I'll drop the fee and everything--let me walk out of here, and you'll never see me again. You know I can disappear. I'll make it permanent this time. Trust me."

"I find it easier to trust people when they're dead."

"Monty, come on, man--I _killed_ for you."

"And now you're going to die for me. Poetic, isn't it? Tell you what, I won't even ask you to get on your knees like your poor FBI agent. I'll allow you the dignity of dying on your feet." He paces back a few steps and takes aim.

The muzzle of a gun settles just behind Montparnasse's ear. "You might want to reconsider that course of action," Enjolras says, very quietly.

Monty goes very still. "What the _fuck_ ," he growls.

"Put the gun down. _Now_."

He drops the gun, and Enjolras kicks it out of reach. He unhooks the handcuffs from his belt and fastens them around Monty's wrists.

"Fuck you," Monty growls. "You were dead. He _shot_ you, I saw it--"

Enjolras slips the Kevlar plate from his shirt pocket and tosses it on the ground in front of Monty. Grantaire watches Monty's expression turn from shock to fury.

"Oh, come on," Enjolras says sweetly. " _Tell_ me you didn't fall for it."

Monty turns on Grantaire. "You set me up," he snarls. "You son of a bitch, you _set me up_."

Grantaire smiles. "It's the first rule--always make the mark think you're giving him what he wants." He glances up at Enjolras. "Did you call it in?"

"I hit the panic button as soon as I could move without being seen. Backup will be here any second."

"Glad to hear it." Grantaire frowns, looking him over. "You okay?"

Enjolras takes a breath to answer him and winces. "I think you cracked one."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. It was a good trick--though you could have let me in on the plan."

"You work best under pressure. And now we've got him on tape confessing to ordering a hit on a federal agent, not to mention half a dozen other things. It should be enough to put him away for good."

"I certainly hope so. I'd rather not do this again."

"You're telling me."

That's the moment that two entire teams of FBI agents swarm the parking garage, Valjean in the lead. He looks from Grantaire to Enjolras to Monty, and Grantaire knows they don't make a particularly inspiring sight. "Do I even _want_ to know how this happened?"

"It'll all be in the report, sir," Enjolras says.

"You did it by the book?"

"Depends on the book in question," Enjolras admits. "But there's no doubt that it's a clean arrest, and we've got his confession on tape."

Along with about thirty seconds of highly unprofessional kissing sounds, but that can't be helped. Grantaire wonders if they can find a way to play it off as part of the plan...

"All right. Get back to the Bureau and start that report. There are already reporters outside wanting to know what's happened here, so I'll go give them their pound of flesh and meet you at headquarters."

Enjolras nods. "Yes, sir."

Valjean leads Monty down the parking-garage stairs with the rest of the back-up team, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire alone again. Enjolras nudges the Kevlar plate with the toe of his shoe. Grantaire had a hell of a time getting hold of one small enough for his purposes--barely four inches long, maybe two and a half wide. The center is dented, and there's a hairline crack running through it--a perfect shot. He thinks he's allowed to be a little proud of that.

"You could have killed me, you know," Enjolras says mildly.

"I'm a good shot."

"The blunt force alone might have been enough."

"I did the math. The odds of killing you by accident were minute."

"What about killing me on _purpose_?" Enjolras counters, giving him a sidelong look. "You set yourself up to win either way--if you'd killed me, accidentally or otherwise, you could have just gone with Montparnasse."

"Yeah, except for the part where he was going to shoot me before I even left the garage."

"You didn't know that at the time. You kept your options open."

"I wouldn't have gone with him," Grantaire says sharply. "I told you, I didn't like working with them even when it was my _job_."

Enjolras nods. "Just promise me you'll never shoot me again, okay?"

"I promise," Grantaire says placatingly.

"Come on, let's get out of here. It's hot, and I want to go home."

"Home? You just said you might have cracked a rib. You're going to the hospital, not  _home_."

Enjolras opens his mouth to argue, but his breath hitches and he sighs. "Fine. But I'm driving myself."

Grantaire supposes he can be satisfied with that. They take the back stairwell, the one that won't be crowded with press.

As soon as they reach the ground floor, Grantaire breaks the silence. He doesn't want to, but it's not like it's going to get any easier as time goes on. "Sorry about the--you know, the way I got your gun off you," he says, looking anywhere but Enjolras' face. "I needed to get close enough to plant the Kevlar plate and get the gun, and there wasn't any other way--"

"It's fine," Enjolras says. "We can talk about it later," he adds.

"Oh, good," Grantaire mumbles. Something to look forward to. They step out of the garage into the sunlight, and Grantaire squints against the brightness. A reflection flickers on the roof of the office building across the street, a wavering mirage in the heat. It sends a ripple of unease through his subconscious--

Backup. Of course Monty would have people on the exits, but Grantaire had thought they would have run as soon as the Feds showed up.

This one must have more loyalty than sense. As soon as Grantaire sees the glint on the rooftop, he turns and tackles Enjolras to the ground, diving for the cover behind the garage wall. The sound of the shot is muffled and far-away, and his shoulder _burns_ when he hits the ground. He rolls onto his back, swearing. Dislocated, probably, because he hadn't exactly been planning his fall when he'd shoved Enjolras--

Though it would probably help if Enjolras wasn't leaning on his damn shoulder like that. And he's _shouting_ at him, Jesus, would a simple thank-you be too much to ask?

"Grantaire? _Grantaire_ , can you hear me?"

"Ow, fuck, of course I can hear you, you're right here--" And then he breaks off, because Enjolras is pulling off his jacket, and there's a bright smear of blood on one sleeve of his shirt. Grantaire reaches up with his good arm, but he can't see a wound. The only hole in Enjolras' shirt is from the bullet Grantaire put there. "Did he get you? Were you hit?"

Something like fear passes over Enjolras' face. He balls up his jacket and presses it to Grantaire's shoulder. "This isn't _my_ blood, you idiot."

"Oh," he says quietly. And then he passes out.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire wakes up staring at the speckled white panels of a hospital ceiling. Historically, that's a bad thing. He closes his eyes and takes stock of the situation as best he can without actually moving.

He's not handcuffed to the bed, which is a plus. The anklet's still there, of course, because the anklet is always there. He's resigned to it now; if they took it off, he'd probably walk funny.

The haze starts to clear, and he remembers the parking garage, and Montparnasse, and--

The sniper. His eyes open and he sits up, ignoring the pull of bandages while he looks around the room. It's after dark, and there's no reason he'd be here, but Grantaire has to check. If he pushes the call button, maybe they'll give him his phone. He has to be sure, has to make sure Enjolras is--

Enjolras is stretched out across three flimsy plastic hospital chairs with an FBI windbreaker for a pillow. In the dim orange light from the window--he can't believe he rates a room with a _window_ \--he can see a scruff of stubble on Enjolras' jawline. Even in his sleep, he's frowning, which is probably because sleeping across three hospital chairs isn't comfortable in the best of times, let alone with a cracked rib.

" _Hey_ ," Grantaire rasps. It takes him three tries to make a sound above a whisper.

Enjolras starts awake. "Grantaire?"

"You look like shit."

Enjolras frowns. "Thanks very much."

"What are you doing here? You should be at home."

"Oh. You didn't have...there wasn't anyone who could make medical decisions for you, in case you...couldn't. And after you were out of surgery, I thought you'd want someone to be here when you woke up."

So Enjolras had taken it on himself. Typical. "Thanks," he manages.

"How do you feel?"

Grantaire pauses to consider. "Like I'm on a really excellent mix of painkillers," he says. He's afraid to ask about his shoulder, afraid to assess the damage there.

But apparently whatever he's on has taken away his poker face, because Enjolras smiles at him. "You're going to be fine. It went right through, in over your shoulder-blade, and out under your collarbone.  Missed everything important--and I mean _everything_. The surgeon said he'd never seen a neater shot."

"Did they get the guy on the rooftop?"

Enjolras nods. "Eponine shot him."

"Will he live?"

"Ah...no."

"Good for Eponine," Grantaire murmurs. Though it probably would have been better for the case if they'd taken him alive. Then again, they've got the head of the hydra now, and they can keep it from growing any more.

This is a terrible metaphor, and he knows it. He decides to blame the whole thing on the painkillers.

Enjolras glances at his phone, reminding Grantaire of more pressing matters.

"How long have I been here?"

"Twelve hours or so--it's after two. It took them a little while to stop the bleeding, so they'll probably keep you a couple of days, to be safe."

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "And how is it that you know all of this?"

Enjolras looks faintly guilty. "I flashed the badge and told them you were involved in my case."

"You were worried, weren't you?"

"I--" Enjolras clenches his jaw on an instinctive denial. " _Yes_ , I was worried. You were _shot_."

"Yeah, but I shot you first, didn't I? Speaking of that, how's your ribs?"

"They're okay. Taped up--I've had worse."

"You should be resting. At home, on a _bed_ , not on a bunch of hospital chairs."

"I know, I know. I just...it made more sense to stay here. Combeferre brought me some clothes this evening and sat with you for a while. He said that I should tell you thanks from him, when you woke up."

He frowns. "Why?"

"I think he appreciates the fact that you saved my life. And so do I."

Grantaire shakes his head. "I put you in as much danger as I protected you from," he says, frowning. "Pretend that sentence didn't end with a preposition." He's normally more articulate than this, he _knows_ he's better than this, but his head feels like it's full of cotton balls. He blinks, and finds that it's hard to open his eyes again.

"Go back to sleep, okay? Valjean asked me to call when you woke up, so you could be debriefed, but you'd be fast asleep before he even got out of bed."

"You gonna lie to your boss?" Grantaire asks, the words softly slurred with exhaustion.

"I'm going to be selective in my reporting."

He thinks he manages to smile before he drifts off.

 

 

He wakes up slowly. He remembers where he is, and what happened, and he opens his eyes, expecting to be alone.

Enjolras is still there. Or he's come back; Grantaire can't be sure which. It's daylight now, but which day, he has no way of knowing.

"Have you been here all night?" he asks.

"I went down the hall for a cup of coffee half an hour ago," Enjolras says evasively.

"You should go home. I'm fine, and you look like you could use a rest. And maybe a shower."

"Flatterer."

"I'm just saying. You look a little rumpled. And scruffy." He pauses. "Not that scruffy is a bad look on you, don't get me wrong. It's just weird."

"I'll take it under advisement." He takes a deep breath. "Listen, Grantaire, I--"

There's a knock on the door-frame, and Valjean steps inside. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

Grantaire shrugs, one-shouldered. "Pretty good, all things considered."

"Can you talk for a few minutes?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"I've listened to the tape, and I think we're all due an explanation," Valjean says sternly.

"Yes, sir," Grantaire replies. "It's a long story--you might want to sit down."

Valjean pulls one of the plastic chairs up to the side of the bed. He holds up a small recorder. "This is all on the record," he says, with a glance at Grantaire and then Enjolras, like it's a warning.

Grantaire nods. "So you probably want me to start at the beginning, huh?"

"That would be best."

Grantaire opens his mouth and then hesitates. After so long, it's hard to find the beginning.

"You knew that Montparnasse wanted Enjolras dead?" Valjean prompts.

"I did." Grantaire glances up at Enjolras, looking almost guilty, and then turns back to Valjean. "It's why I broke out in the first place, sir."

"Explain, please."

"Philippe Brujon got moved to super-max about eight months ago. I heard him running his mouth one time, talking about how angry Monty was at some hotshot FBI agent cleaning up his organization. He said there'd be big money for whoever could get rid of him. And I...I wanted to make sure nobody got to him."

"Why?"

"Sorry?"

"Why?" Valjean repeats. "He put you in jail."

"That doesn't mean I wanted him _dead_. But I figured Enjolras wouldn't show up if I just tried to contact him out of the blue, so I arranged the escape to make him curious. The informant gig was a stroke of luck, I'll admit, but it was perfect--I could keep an eye on the situation, see if anybody was thinking about taking Monty up on his offer."

"And _you_ took him up on it."

Grantaire smiles wryly. "He didn't give me much of a choice. A few of his associates showed up at Sister's house two nights ago and dragged me off to whatever penthouse was serving as his lair. Promising to take Enjolras out meant that one--nobody else was going to try to kill him in the immediate future, and two--I had a decent chance of walking out of Monty's place alive."

"Take me through the process on the day of the operation."

"I told Enjolras that Monty had a meeting scheduled in the parking garage--and I told Monty that I was going to prove my loyalty by getting rid of Enjolras right in front of him. The goal was to record him talking about having ordered the hit, so that we would have solid evidence to arrest him. So when Enjolras and I got to the parking garage, I distracted him and stole his gun," Grantaire says with a perfectly straight face. "I played on the fact that Enjolras trusted me and would never suspect that I was setting him up."

"It makes sense," Enjolras puts in, clearly not wanting Valjean to ask more details about the distraction in question. "If Monty thought I was dead, it would be easy enough to record him talking about the hit. But Monty's too smart to fall for something like blanks in the gun, or a near-miss shot. Grantaire had to shoot me, so he borrowed a segment of Kevlar plating to disperse the impact."

"And it mostly worked," Grantaire says. "Sorry about the ribs."

"I'm fine. You're not the only one who's been dosed with excellent painkillers."

Grantaire clenches his jaw shut on a yawn, but Valjean and Enjolras both catch him. "That's enough for now, I think," Valjean says. "Get some rest. If we need clarification on anything, we'll let you know. Enjolras?"

He glances at Grantaire and back. "Sir?"

"I don't want to see you in the office until Monday."

He bites down on a smile. "Yes, sir."

Valjean leaves, and quiet falls for a moment. Enjolras clears his throat. "So you were setting me up from the start."

"Only in the interest of saving your ass," Grantaire mumbles.

"How much--" Enjolras pauses, searching for the right words.

"It wasn't all lies." Grantaire's voice is quiet. "Not even most of it. Just what I had to do to get your attention, that's all."

"You could have told me that Montparnasse wanted me out of the picture."

"No, I couldn't have. You're not a good enough actor. You would have done something--changed your routine, gotten a guard--and Monty would have stepped it up. That's what I told Combeferre."

" _Combeferre_ knew?"

"I had to make sure _someone_ was keeping an eye on you."

"Treachery," Enjolras says, smiling. "Treachery all around."

Grantaire smiles back at him and closes his eyes. "You know you love it," he says, and then he's asleep again.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire spends another three days in the hospital, becoming increasingly cranky and restless. Enjolras stops by whenever he can, which is fairly often--he's not allowed at the office, so it isn't like he's got anything better to do.

Grantaire goes back to Sister's after that, but it's another week before he's pronounced fit to return to work. He shows up with his arm in a sling to a standing ovation from the entire White Collar Crime Division, and Enjolras has the surprising joy of watching Grantaire's face turn pink.

Federal cases can sometimes take months, even years, but Montparnasse's case comes to court before the month is out. Grantaire testifies against him on the same day he gets permission to stop wearing the sling.

The lawyer Montparnasse hired is brutal in his cross-examination, trying to make it look like Grantaire's been playing both ends against the middle. There are times when Enjolras wonders if maybe that's true. He doesn't get a chance to talk to Grantaire until the judge sends the jury to deliberate.

"How are you holding up?" Enjolras asks.

Grantaire shrugs, and then winces as his shoulder pulls. "I'm fine. It's nice not to be the one on trial, for once."

"I can imagine. Listen, they think it might be days before the jury's done deliberating, but the evidence is overwhelmingly in our favor. The hit on me alone is worth a life sentence."

"Good," Grantaire says.

"What's more, the Marshals agree with me." Enjolras holds out his hand. A flat key with a microchip on the end rests in his palm.

Grantaire sucks in a deep breath. "Really?"

"Really. Do you want to do the honors?"

"Nah. I'll let you." Grantaire props his foot up on a nearby chair and lets Enjolras unlock the anklet for the last time. The green light flashes and goes out, and the lock opens. Enjolras steps away, holding the defunct anklet in his hand.

"So that's it. I'm free to go."

"Anywhere you want."

Grantaire nods, looking a little shell-shocked. "Wow."

"There's no hurry, though," Enjolras says, hoping he doesn't sound too eager. "I doubt Sister's going to throw you out, and job-hunting takes time--"

"You mean, it takes time to find someone willing to hire an ex-convict."

"That's not what I meant! It takes time for _anyone_. So don't...I know you're probably dying to get out of that two-mile radius, but you don't have to rush."

"Uh-huh. I actually _do_ have a few marketable skills, you know. I could do security consulting, or art restoration, or go visit your friends and see if they need help at the bakery..."

"I never said you didn't have any skills," Enjolras says lightly. "You're awfully defensive."

Grantaire makes a face at him. "Sister came upstairs to talk to me last night. She gave me a check. All the rent I've paid her--I mean, the rent the _Bureau_ paid her--she gave it back to me. Said it was a going-away present, like she _knew_ you were going to let me off."

"A going-away present. So you _are_  going somewhere?" Enjolras asks, striving for a casual tone.

"Maybe. I need to find another place, at least. I love Sister, she's been amazing, but I can't take advantage of her hospitality any longer. The money she gave me should be enough for a few months' rent--or more, if I get out of the city."

Enjolras multiplies the Bureau's rent allowance times the number of months Grantaire's been out--has it only been seven?--and has to agree. "Well, if you're not planning to move before dinner, Combeferre wanted me to ask if you'd like to come over tonight."

Grantaire smiled. " _Combeferre_ wanted me to come? What about you?"

"Have you ever waited for an invitation from me before?"

He laughs. "Yeah, okay. What should I bring?"

"You don't have to bring anything. Just be there."

 

 

Between the two of them, Enjolras and Combeferre are capable of putting together a pretty good meal. Combeferre's pot-roast has been in the oven since this morning, and Enjolras puts together a salad and a dessert, and they all sit down together, like this is normal. Like it _could_ be normal.

Enjolras sets a bottle of wine in front of Grantaire and watches his eyes widen. "This is--"

"The wine you were drinking when I caught you. The second time," he adds, a little smugly.

"You remembered."

"I kept the bottle," Enjolras admits. "For a while, I thought it might offer some clue about your escape. Later on, I realized that you just liked it."

Combeferre pours him a glass. Grantaire takes a sip. He closes his eyes, and his smile is a faint and trembling thing.

"Is it good?"

He nods, and he opens his eyes. "It's perfect."

After dinner, they move to the living room and put on a movie. Combeferre and Grantaire argue over what to watch, but Enjolras' head is buzzing pleasantly from the wine and he doesn't care what they choose.

He tries to focus on the movie--he _does_ , honestly--but Combeferre's arm is slung warm around his shoulder, and he finds himself leaning against him, leaning _into_ him. Combeferre turns his head and presses a kiss to Enjolras' temple, and Enjolras holds back a sigh.

It's when Combeferre grazes Enjolras' earlobe with his teeth that Enjolras realizes they're not being all that subtle anymore. He opens his eyes and catches Grantaire watching them instead of the screen.

Instantly, Grantaire's on his feet, reaching for his coat. "I should get going," he mumbles, his face pink.

Combeferre lifts his head. "You don't have to go."

"Yeah, well, I don't want to keep you two from doing...whatever it is you're about to do."

"You won't," Enjolras says softly, and Grantaire freezes.

"What are you talking about?"

They uncurl from each other, acknowledging that this is a relatively serious conversation that should probably not be had while two of the three participants are sitting in each other's laps.

"You're welcome to stay," Combeferre says clearly. "No matter what we're about to do, you're welcome to stay. To watch. To...participate, if you'd like."

"But only if you'd like," Enjolras says.

"Are you screwing with me right now?"

"Of course not. We've talked about it. We couldn't ask you before this, because it wouldn't have been equal. But we like you very much--we both do--and we'd like you to join us. If or when you feel comfortable doing so."

"Okay, just to be clear. You're asking me if I want to have a threesome with you."

"For a start, yes," Combeferre says.

"For a _start_?"

Enjolras nods. "It's not just...we'd like you to be _with_ us. It doesn't have to involve sex, if you don't want that."

"No, I want it," Grantaire says, flushing pink. "But I--this is kind of..."

"Sudden, we understand. Would you like to just watch tonight?" Combeferre asks.

Grantaire nods.

"Upstairs?" The bed offers them quite a few more options, and there's a comfortable chair in one corner that will give Grantaire an excellent view.

Combeferre leads Grantaire upstairs while Enjolras checks the locks and sets the alarm. When he gets upstairs, Grantaire is perched on the edge of the armchair eyeing them warily, like at any moment they might change their minds and shove him out the door.

As soon as Enjolras closes the door, Combeferre pulls him close, tilting his head back for a kiss that's at least half teeth. Grantaire makes a sound that's half-sigh and half-groan, and he sits back helplessly in the chair.

Enjolras and Combeferre strip each other quickly, too keyed up to make a show of it, but Combeferre takes his time when it comes to preparing Enjolras. He starts with two fingers, which makes Enjolras gasp and shift his hips, but he moves them slowly, twisting his wrist to watch the way that Enjolras reacts.

"Are you going to make me beg?" Enjolras asks, when he can get enough breath to speak.

Combeferre pauses to consider the idea. "Not tonight." He pulls back and slicks his cock. When he leans forward again, Enjolras twists his hips and rolls himself on top of Combeferre. His eyes widen faintly, and then he smiles. "Show-off," he says fondly, and then his eyes flutter closed as Enjolras kneels over him and sinks down.

The angle is overwhelming, and it takes a moment for both of them to catch their breath. Finally Enjolras lifts up, and Combeferre settles his hands around Enjolras' hips to help set the pace.

Grantaire's hands are curled into fists on the arms of the chair, and Enjolras can see the hard line of his cock pressing against his jeans. "Go on," he says. "I want to see you get off on this."

Grantaire fumbles with the button on his jeans and shoves his pants down enough to wrap a hand around his cock. Combeferre and Enjolras watch him hungrily, their motions slowing to match his pace.

"Come for us," Combeferre says, his voice at once gentle and firm. Grantaire twists his hand on the upstroke and comes undone, writhing in the chair. Enjolras watches the long line of his throat, his head thrown back, until it all becomes too much and he closes his eyes. Combeferre's shaking beneath him, but the hand he wraps around Enjolras' cock is sure and steady. In half a dozen strokes Enjolras is coming, his hands braced on Combeferre's chest, and Combeferre follows him, gasping out Enjolras' name. Enjolras slowly collapses on top of Combeferre, and there's a long moment in which nobody moves.

They're both a mess, and as soon as Enjolras can remember how to walk he's going to get up and clean them both up...

"Here."

He opens his eyes to find a flushed and disheveled Grantaire, holding out a damp washcloth. Enjolras takes it with a nod of thanks and sets to cleaning up before handing off the cloth to Combeferre.

The floor creaks beneath Grantaire as he shifts his weight. "I--I should...the guest room, or the couch downstairs, would you mind if I...?"

"Not if that's where you'd be most comfortable," Combeferre says. "But there's more than enough room here, if you'd like to stay."

"Oh. Okay." Grantaire performs a hesitant sort of strip-tease, like he's unsure of just how naked they want him to be. He ends up settling on just wearing boxers, and he stops at the edge of the bed. "Which, uh...which side should I..."

Enjolras grabs his wrist and tugs, and then suddenly Grantaire is in the middle of the bed, and Combeferre's hand is resting lightly on his hip.

"Is this all right?" he asks.

Grantaire laughs and closes his eyes. "It's perfect."

 

 

Enjolras half-wakes to a brush of lips against his own. He opens his eyes. "Grantaire?"

"Shh," he whispers. It's still dark; he's not much more than a blur of darker shadow against the faint glow from the streetlight. "I've got to go. Thank you, for last night."

"Mm." Enjolras leans forward and kisses him again.

"Go back to sleep," Grantaire says, and Enjolras does.

When they wake up in the morning, there's a stack of pancakes kept warm in the oven, and a plate full of bacon and eggs. Grantaire himself is nowhere to be found. 

"Did he tell you where he was going?" Combeferre asks.

"No, but he woke me up to let me know he was leaving."

Combeferre nods. "Me, too."

"He kissed me."

"And me."

He also managed to circumvent the alarm somehow, which ought to be more annoying than it really is. Enjolras frowns. "Do you think...should we call him? Or does he need space?"

"Let's give him until this evening. If we haven't heard from him, we can ask him if he wants to go back to that sushi place tonight."

So Enjolras does a little bit of paperwork and pretends to grumble at the Mets game on TV. They both look at the clock too much, waiting for the point where it might become appropriate to call Grantaire again.

They make it to five o'clock, but by then the restlessness is too much to bear. "Why don't you call him?" Combeferre asks.

Enjolras reaches for his phone. He taps Grantaire's number and waits for the ring.

Instead there's a burst of static, and three rising tones. _Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try again._

Enjolras frowns and dials manually, instead of using the address book.

 _Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please--_ He hangs up. "His phone's not working."

"Voicemail?"

"No. It's saying the number's not in service."

"Maybe the contract ran out. Call Sister," Combeferre suggests.

"Yeah." Enjolras picks up the phone again and dials Sister's number. The housekeeper answers, and Enjolras forces himself to stand still instead of pacing the room while the housekeeper goes to get Sister.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sister, it's Enjolras."

"Ah. What can I do for you today, Secret Agent Man?"

"I'm looking for Grantaire. His phone's out of service, and I thought maybe he was there..."

"Oh, honey," she says. "I thought you knew."

The unease in Enjolras' stomach coalesces into dread. "Knew what?"

"He left this morning."

"Where did he go?"

"He didn't say."

"Did...did he say when he'd be back?"

"He took his things with him," she says, very gently.

Enjolras dimly hears himself saying polite things-- _all right, thank you, have a good night, Sister, take care_. He ends the call and sets the phone down carefully on the table.

"Enjolras?"

"He left. Sister doesn't think he's coming back."

Combeferre's face falls. "I see."

"Do you think we made him go?"

Combeferre shakes his head. "I don't think there's anything in the world that could _make_ Grantaire do anything. He stayed last night because he wanted to--and he left for the same reason."

"Yeah." Enjolras knows that Combeferre's right, but that doesn't make it any easier. Maybe it makes it even worse.

"Are you okay?"

"Are _you_?" Enjolras counters. Combeferre had been closer to Grantaire than Enjolras had, in some ways--after all, they hadn't had the mess of protocol standing in the way of their friendship.

Combeferre shrugs. "I'll miss him," he says simply.

Enjolras takes a deep breath and reaches out to squeeze Combeferre's hand. "Yeah," he says. "Me too."


	9. Epilogue: August, September, October

They spend the next two months waiting for the other shoe to drop. A case is going to land on Enjolras' desk with all the hallmarks of Grantaire's work--a locked-room job, a private museum heist with no fingerprints and no sign of forced entry--and it'll be back to the old days, chasing Grantaire all over the world, always one step behind.

Or worse, a case _won't_ land on his desk, and they'll never hear from Grantaire again.

Little things have more impact than they should. One day, Enjolras comes in to work and Grantaire's chair is gone from his desk. Combeferre finishes  _Twenty Years After_  and picks up _The Black Tulip_ ; _The Count of Monte Cristo_ starts to gather dust on the shelf. Enjolras avoids Sister's neighborhood when he can.

They've both lost their taste for sushi.

Eight weeks after Grantaire disappears, someone hits the Louvre. They don't get much--a couple of minor works by relatively minor painters--but everyone at the Bureau is talking about it.

At least, Enjolras thinks they're talking about it. He can't be certain, since everyone immediately stops talking whenever he walks into the office, but he's reasonably sure. One of the interns has taken to literally tiptoeing past his desk.

Two days after the Louvre job, Valjean approaches him. "Interpol's asked for our help on this one," he says seriously. "They're specifically interested in your insight."

That means Interpol thinks it's Grantaire, too. Enjolras takes the folder and flips through the contents. "What were they after?" The paintings they got can't possibly have been their goal; it's too much risk for too little profit.

"Interpol thinks they were going after the Mona Lisa."

Enjolras smiles. _They were going after a Mona Lisa, anyway_. "It wasn't him."

"I'm sorry?"

"Interpol--and everyone in this building--thinks it was Grantaire, but it wasn't. He wouldn't go after the Mona Lisa. He's not even convinced that it's the real one."

Valjean raises an eyebrow. "He told you that?"

"In passing, once." He'd had other things on his mind that day, and he had never asked Grantaire what he'd meant by it. Now it didn't look as though he'd ever get the chance.

"What _would_ he go after?"

" _Liberty Leading the People_ ," Enjolras replies immediately. "But only if he was trying to get my attention."

Valjean seems to take that without question. "I can't say I'm not relieved to hear it. Look over the file anyway, and see if you can give our European counterparts any help."

 

* * *

 

They've stopped going out on the weekends. In the past, they would drive up into the mountains, or take the ferry out to Enjolras' parents' house on the Vineyard once or twice a year. It's nice to get out of the city in the fall, to watch the leaves turn like tourists and walk along the half-empty beach in the off-season.

But this year, they haven't left. Neither of them have suggested it, probably because they're thinking the same thing: They need to be here, in case he comes back.

They can't keep going this way forever. They can't always be watching over their shoulders, leaving a light on just in case he turns up. It's not really living, it's waiting, and Enjolras knows it has to stop.

"I was thinking we could get a cabin for the weekend," he ventures one evening in October, just when the leaves are starting to fall. "That place in the Catskills, maybe?"

Combeferre looks up from his book. "I...sure," he says. He smiles, a little uncertainly, but doesn't say anything about Grantaire. Combeferre hasn't said his name since he left.

So Enjolras books them a room and they spend the weekend up in the mountains. They hike most of Saturday, and when it rains Sunday morning, they stay in bed until noon.

Here, the bed doesn't feel like it's too large, the rooms don't feel a little too quiet. It makes Enjolras wonder if maybe New York isn't the place for them anymore. If he requested a transfer, Valjean would do his best to get him placed wherever he wanted--maybe DC. Sure, he'd be working under Javert, but if he can keep his temper he probably won't get himself fired. And with Combeferre's credentials, it's only a matter of time before the Library of Congress comes knocking on the door...

Combeferre wakes from a doze, brushing a kiss against Enjolras' shoulder. "What time is check-out?"

"One," Enjolras admits. It's approaching twelve-thirty already.

Instead of getting up, Combeferre leans up over Enjolras. "Listen, I was thinking..."

"That's dangerous," Enjolras says, smiling.

"Next weekend--would you like to go to the MOMA? I know it might be odd, given...everything that's happened, but we haven't been in a long time now."

Enjolras nods. "Yeah," he says. "That sounds good."

 

* * *

 

It isn't easy. Enjolras can't help but see things through Grantaire's eyes, almost like he's casing the museum himself. He takes note of guard positions and security cameras and alarm systems, paying almost as much attention to them as to the artwork they're ostensibly here to see.

He hadn't known there was a Matisse exhibit--not that it makes much of a difference, in the end. He knows what he'll find before they reach the end of the room: a single, very familiar piece hung on the wall. _On loan from a private collection_ , says the placard beneath the painting.

"This is the one he restored, isn't it?" Combeferre asks softly.

Enjolras has never been able to find any proof of it--even Grantaire never said a word, all through the long months they worked together. "Yeah." The word comes through a surprisingly rough throat, and Combeferre reaches down to twine their fingers together. They walk the rest of the gallery that way, never more than a step apart.

It's raining just a little when they leave, and mist is seeping up from the still-warm sidewalks, wreathing the streets in fog. They get off the subway two stops early to walk the rest of the way. This is good; this is _normal_ somehow. It's an improvement over the last couple of months, the constant low-grade tension of waiting. Enjolras fishes his keys out of his pocket and stops.

There's someone sitting in the steps leading up to the front door, half-hidden in the shadows. Enjolras angles himself in front of Combeferre, almost unconsciously.

The shadow moves, lifting a head crowned with a riot of curls, and his face catches the light from the streetlamp.

The breath goes out of Combeferre in a soft " _Oh_."

"I didn't come to bother you," Grantaire says, standing up. "I just wanted to apologize."

"You don't have to--"

He cuts Combeferre off with a quick shake of his head. "I _do_. I panicked, and I ran. I was just so afraid that I was trading one cage for another. You know how animals get, after they've been in captivity?"

"You had to be sure you could still survive in the wild," Enjolras says.

Grantaire nods. "So I left, and I went everywhere, just to make sure that I still could. But it wasn't--it wasn't what I wanted. What I wanted was _this_ , and I fucked up, and I don't have anyone to blame but myself." He takes a breath. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry, for leaving like I did."

He takes a step down off the porch, and Enjolras shakes his head.

"Grantaire. Come inside."

As soon as the door is closed and the locks are set, Combeferre sweeps Grantaire into a hug. "We missed you."

"I missed you, too," Grantaire replies, blinking rapidly as Combeferre steps back. He looks at Enjolras warily.

"The Louvre," Enjolras begins.

Grantaire laughs. "Oh, come on--you know that wasn't me. I'm done with all of that."

"Are you sure?"

He reads the seriousness in Enjolras' voice, and he nods. "Yeah. Even the statutes are up now--I'm in the clear. For good, I swear."

"Okay, then."

"Um...about the Matisse," Grantaire offers, but Enjolras shakes his head.

"I don't need to know," he says.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Enjolras steps in close to kiss him. "Welcome home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of thanks to anyone and everyone who encouraged this piece, especially soemily, who let me gush and ramble in Tumblr mail for ages.
> 
> And tremendous thanks to artemisghoul, for her incredible image sets. She _drew_ in a _book_ for me! I am floored every time I look at her work, and I still haven't stopped smiling.


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